For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. He had not to wait long. ” “Ay,” he repeated, looking away from her. “A move of any sort would certainly be fatal. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door.
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