What was it those eyes held?
Was it hatred?
Was it madness?
Was it--?
She broke away horror-stricken, and stripped the coat from her with hands like ice.

Again through her mind, with feverish insistence, ran those words that had startled her earlier in the day.

She found herself repeating them deliriously, under her breath: "I beheld Satan--as lightning--fall from heaven!" Why did they haunt her so?
What was it in the utterance that frightened her?
What meaning did they hold for her?
What hidden terror lay behind it?
What had happened to her?
What nightmare horror was this clawing at her heart, lacerating, devouring, destroying?
It was something she had never felt before, something too terrible to face, too overwhelming to ignore.
Was she going mad, she asked herself?
And like a dreadful answer to a riddle inscrutable her white lips whispered those haunting unforgettable words: "I beheld Satan--as lightning--fall from heaven." Mechanically she bathed her face and hands and passed into her sitting-room, where her tea awaited her.

A bright fire crackled there, and her favourite chair was drawn up to it.

The kettle hissed merrily on a spirit-lamp.
Entering, she found, somewhat to her surprise, old Dimsdale waiting to serve her.
"Thank you," she said.