It was such a very improbable thing to happen to such a commonplace person.
Her room was very restful-looking that night to Jean, tired after a long day's junketing.

It was a plain little upper chamber, with white walls and Indian rugs on the floor.

A high south wind was blowing (it had been another of poor Mhor's snow-less Christmasses!), making the curtains billow out into the room, and she could hear through the open window the sound of Tweed rushing between its banks.

On the dressing-table lay a new novel with a vivid paper cover.

Jean gave it a little disgusted push.