When she had once begun to let herself go the movement took her off her feet; the relief of it was like the cessation of a cramp.

She shared in a word her long secret, she shifted her sharp pain.

She brought, I confess, tears to my own eyes, tears of helpless tenderness for her helpless poverty.
Her visit however was not quite so memorable in itself as in some of its consequences, the most immediate of which was that I went that afternoon to see Geoffrey Dawling, who had in those days rooms in Welbeck Street, where I presented myself at an hour late enough to warrant the supposition that he might have come in.

He had not come in, but he was expected, and I was invited to enter and wait for him: a lady, I was informed, was already in his sitting-room.

I hesitated, a little at a loss: it had wildly coursed through my brain that the lady was perhaps Flora Saunt.