And instead, what had she done?
She had merely said very meekly that "it was not right," and had sought safety in a hasty retreat.
She sighed wearily, and began to shake out the masses of her black hair, that was as the thickness of night spun fine.

And as she drew out the thick tortoise-shell pins that bore it up, it rolled down heavily in a soft dark flood and covered her as with a garment.

Then she leaned back and sighed again, and her eyes fell on a book that lay at the corner of her dressing-table, where she had left it before dinner.

It was the book they had been reading, and the mark was a bit of fine white cord that Claudius had cunningly twisted and braided, sailor fashion, to keep the place.

Margaret rose to her feet, and taking the book in her hand, looked at it a moment without opening it.