She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. "Is it poison?" she asked. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. But while there's life there's hope. He turned. The idea of anything criminal never entered her thoughts. It was obvious that he had waited for her. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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