I can't say much
for the place; there's precious little romance around the Maison Dor?e.
Does it still rain, I wonder?"
She opened the blind and looked out. Yes, it still rained; it still blew
in long, shuddering gusts; the low-lying sky was inky black; athwart the
darkness flashed the murky street lamps.
Mollie dropped the curtain, with a little shiver.
"'The night is cold, and dark, and dreary,
It rains, and the wind is never weary.'
It's a horrible night to be abroad, but I'll keep my word, if I drown
for it!"
She hunted up the long water-proof mantle she had worn the night of her
abduction, drew the hood far over her head and face, wrapped it around
her, opened the window, and resolutely stepped out on the piazza.
She paused an instant--a blinding rush of wind and rain almost took her
off her feet; the next, the brave little heroine was flitting along the
slippery piazza, down the stairs, out of the wicket gate and into the
black, shining street.
Away sped Mollie--swift as a little, wingless Mercury--down the avenue,
through Union Square, to the place of tryst.
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