"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you’re unripe and half-educated. But come in, dear.
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