On the night that Jethro Fawe had first confronted
her father and herself, and he had been carried to the hut in the Wood,
her sleep had been disturbed and restless, but dreamless; in her sleep on
the night of the day of his release, she had been tossed upon vague
clouds of mental unrest; but that was the first really disordered sleep
she had ever known.
Holding the candle above her head, she looked in the mirror on her
dressing-table, and laughed nervously at the shocked look in her eyes, at
the hand pressed upon the bosom whose agitations troubled the delicate
linen at her breast. The pale light of the candle, the reflection from
the white muslin of her dressing-table and her nightwear, the strange,
deep darkness of her eyes, the ungathered tawny hair falling to her
shoulders, gave an unusual paleness to her face.
"What a ninny I am!" she said aloud as she looked at herself, her tongue
chiding her apprehensive eyes, her laugh contemptuously adding its
comment on her tremulousness. "It was a real nightmare--a waking
nightmare, that's what it was."
She searched the room once more, however-every corner, under the bed, the
chest of drawers and the dressing-table, before she got into bed again,
her feet icily cold. And yet again before settling down she looked round,
perplexed and inquiring.
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