It isn’t illusions—for us. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. “What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. His attention drawn, the captain was easily able to make out the pretty features under the feathered hat, and the same dark riding habit the fugitive had worn on that first occasion at Remenham House. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. Everything was going to hell.
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