“There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. Every movable mirror had been placed here, to discourage vanity, and since no whitewash covered the brocaded purple wallpaper, its pervasive hue gave an added sense of heaviness to the crowded chamber. Seems you were right about Valade. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation.
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