If I did not leave them alone she meant me to come for a purpose--
a purpose now indicated by the quick, fantastic idea that to oblige
me she had unlocked the secretary. She had not left the key,
but the lid would probably move if I touched the button.
This theory fascinated me, and I bent over very close to judge.
I did not propose to do anything, not even--not in the least--
to let down the lid; I only wanted to test my theory,
to see if the cover WOULD move. I touched the button
with my hand--a mere touch would tell me; and as I did so (it is
embarrassing for me to relate it), I looked over my shoulder.
It was a chance, an instinct, for I had not heard anything.
I almost let my luminary drop and certainly I stepped back,
straightening myself up at what I saw. Miss Bordereau stood
there in her nightdress, in the doorway of her room, watching me;
her hands were raised, she had lifted the everlasting
curtain that covered half her face, and for the first,
the last, the only time I beheld her extraordinary eyes.
They glared at me, they made me horribly ashamed.
I never shall forget her strange little bent white tottering
figure, with its lifted head, her attitude, her expression;
neither shall I forget the tone in which as I turned,
looking at her, she hissed out passionately, furiously:
"Ah, you publishing scoundrel!"
I know not what I stammered, to excuse myself, to explain;
but I went toward her, to tell her I meant no harm.
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