Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now.
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