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 chilled her; she hated it, yet she dared not venture abroad. A step in the passage outside, a voice on the stair, caused her to start and turn sharply. Never had she known a like nervousness. Hitherto her head had gone up and her chin out at the thought of danger; she had been a bold and determined fighter in the battle of life, had given blow for blow, nor asked for quarter, nor expected it. But now of a sudden she had grown timorous, fearful, as though that which she at length had found might be taken from her. Harshness, indignity had but stiffened her determination; tenderness, consideration, love brought uppermost the delicate attributes of her sex. She trembled for him as a mother might for her child. There was no thought of self in her fears, in her musings, except perhaps the thought that to lose him now would be like losing all. Rather was there a vague dread that in some manner harm might come to him through that madman. For while she despised her husband she dreaded him still more. Of his violence she had many bitter experiences, but not until her return to England did she know that he had ever been called “Mad Brenton.” The name 322