“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Spurling attended him as his nurse, and, under her care, he speedily revived. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in.
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