"He who stands on the verge of the grave, as I do, should never be unprepared. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. At the Palazzo she had been confined to her own sunny windowed quarters most of the time, but she had the entire run of the inside of the manor. “If you think it worth while,” she answered doubtfully. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it.
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