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... And in the hallway she heard the pounding of his heavy boots. Already he was at her door. Before she could shoot the bolt, he had gripped the knob. When he flung his weight against the panel, it flew back, and under the impact she was thrown backward, and would have fallen had it not been that she brought up against her bed. Here she half fell, but was erect before he had stormed across the threshold.

"You...."

Why had she run from him? She was not afraid of him and she was not afraid of anything on earth. Or, at least, making a sort of religion out of it, that was the thing which she had always told herself. Just at hand, on the little table by the open window, was her revolver. And she could shoot and shoot true to the mark. She had told Babe Deveril that she could take care of herself. She stood, rigid and defiant, and in her heart unafraid.

On a bracketed shelf over her bed was a kerosene lamp which she had left burning when she had gone out. She could see the working of his lips. And he saw her.