He released her, stared vacantly at the wound he had made.

She rushed into her room, slammed the door and locked it.
"Margaret!" he implored.
She did not answer; he knew she would not.

He sat miserably at her door for an hour, then wandered out into the woods, and stayed there until dinner-time.
When he came in she was sitting by the lake, reading a French novel.

To him, who knew only his own language, there was something peculiarly refined and elegant about her ability at French; he thought, as did she, that she spoke French like a native, though, in fact, her accent was almost British, and her understanding of it was just about what can be expected in a person who has never made a thorough study of any language.

As he advanced toward her she seemed unconscious of his presence.