Here and there, she
paused to touch or handle some familiar object--a photograph in a silver
frame, a book on the carved table, the trifles on her open desk, or an
ornamental vase on the mantle--then moved restlessly away to continue her
aimless exercise. When the silence was rudely broken by the sound of a
knock at her door, she stood still--a look of anger marring the
well-schooled beauty of her features.
The knock was repeated.
With an exclamation of impatient annoyance, she crossed the room, and
flung open the door.
Without leave or apology, her husband entered; and, as he did so, was
seized by a paroxysm of coughing that sent him reeling, gasping and
breathless, to the nearest chair.
Mrs. Taine stood watching her husband coldly, with a curious, speculative
expression on her face that she made no attempt to hide. When his torture
was abated--for the time--leaving him exhausted and trembling with
weakness, she said coldly, "Well, what do you want? What are you doing
here?"
The man lifted his pallid, haggard face and, with a yellow, claw-like hand
wiped the beads of clammy sweat from his forehead; while his deep-sunken
eyes leered at her with an insane light.
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