Maybe half a year, counting this summer. “I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. One of the coolies held the paper lantern. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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