In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life. As usual Brendon lit the candles, and Sydney dragged out the spiritlamp and set it going. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour.
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