Above it hung her fine oval mirror, in a carved gilt frame.
Upon the table were scattered silver and ivory things and glass bottles, the like of which Madelon had never seen.

The room was full of that mingled perfume of roses and lavender which was always about Dorothy herself.
The counterpane on Dorothy's bed was all white and blue, and quilted in a curious fashion, and her pillows were edged with lace.

In the midst of this white-and-blue nest, her slender little body half buried in her great feather-bed, her lovely yellow locks spreading over her pillow, lay Dorothy Fair when Madelon entered.

She half raised herself, and stared at her with blue, dilated eyes, and shrank back with a little whimper of terror when she came impetuously to her bedside.
"You don't believe it," Madelon said, with no preface.
Dorothy stared at her, trembling.

"You mean--" "I mean you don't believe he killed him! You don't believe Burr Gordon killed his cousin Lot!" Dorothy sank weakly back on her pillows.