Of a certainty, she also was imbecile. “But perhaps I want to confess them. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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