So still she
was, she might have been a carven statue save for the fluttering of
the garments about her thin childish legs. The distance to the
ground looked impassable, and she could not collect her thoughts for
the hissing of the flame as it ate up the floor in the room behind
her. Horrible as it was, she thought it would be easier to let it
steal behind her and wrap her in its burning embrace than to drop
from these dizzy heights down through that terrible distance, to hear
her own bones snap as she touched the quilt, and to see her own blood
staining the ground.
'She'll burn, sure,' said a man. 'Well, she's half-witted--that's
one comfort!'
Mary started as if she were stung, and forced her way still nearer to
the window; hoping to gain a position where she could be more plainly
seen.
Everybody thought something was going to happen. Mary had dozens of
friends and more acquaintances in that motley assemblage, and they
somehow felt that there were dramatic possibilities in the situation.
Unless she could think of something, Marm Lisa's last chance was
gone: that was the sentiment of the crowd, and Mary agreed in it.
Her cape had long since dropped from her shoulders, her hat was
trampled under foot, the fair coil of hair had loosened and was
falling on her neck, and the steel fillet blazed in the firelight.
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