She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. ‘Now then, missie. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. He can come round there. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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