It was not a question of opportunity or temptation--these always attend the footsteps of those who would adventure; but for long she had fenced herself round with restrictions of her own making; and the secrecy and strangeness of her father's course had made this not only possible, but in a sense imperative.
The end to that had come.

Gaiety, daring, passion, elation, depression, were alive in her now, and in a sense had found an outlet in a handful of days--indeed since the day when Jethro Fawe and Max Ingolby had come into her life, each in his own way, for good or for evil.

If Ingolby came for good, then Jethro Fawe came for evil.

She would have revolted at the suggestion that Jethro Fawe came for good.
Yet, during the last few days, she had been drawn again and again towards the hut in the wood.

It was as though a power stronger than herself had ordered her not to wander far from where the Romany claimant of herself awaited his fate.