"I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. “I have heard these things from you before, and you have had my answer. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. "Yes, now," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have another opportunity. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights.
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