power of the town ceased to function and the house was in darkness, except for the ceaseless blue glimmer of lightning through the rain.
Bastien stumbled toward Delight. He would have liked in that blackness to disentangle her from the older woman and bear her to safety some place—some place—a desert island—a cave—wild tales from his boyhood surged through his brain. His hands groped towards her. A flash showed him her wild, frightful eyes. Then Mrs. Jessop's woolly wrapper came between them. He knew she'd never let him hear the last of this. . . . Interfering, spiteful woman that she was! Why had he ever got thick with her?
Delight was safe in her bedroom, trembling but safe from the housekeeper's hands, the door locked, the washstand dragged over against it, the oil lamp lighted, her own dishevelled figure reflected in the glass, for company.
Oh, if May were only here! Darling, plucky, strong little May. She'd protect her from Mrs. Jessop. It was a queer situation that May couldn't face.
She was hot as fire but she was afraid to open the window because of the storm. She sat on the side of the bed fanning herself with a bit of newspaper. Beads of perspiration stood on her forehead and across her nose. There were purple marks on her wrist where Mrs. Jessop had wrenched it. Cruel old woman. There had been nothing done or said to deserve those purple marks. Bill had only been kind to her, patted her shoulder, and he had just been going to show her some trinkets he had brought from South Africa when the door had been thrown open and all that row began.
