She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. The coolies proceeded at a swinging, mincing trot, which gave to the suspended seat a dancing action similar to that of a suddenly agitated hangingspring of a birdcage. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself.
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