"Fear!" echoed Wild, in a terrible tone,—"fear! Repeat that word again, and nothing shall save you. John stared palely. She donned her gloves. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around.
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