She could think of nothing more to say. Accompanied by Sir Cecil, who still continued passionately enamoured of his sister, and to whom he represented that she had fallen a victim to the arts of a seducer, he set off, at fiery speed, for the metropolis. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word.
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