The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. 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. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Not for me. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest.
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