She trembled from head to foot, and for a moment it seemed that she must fall.

But she steadied herself and walked firmly to Eglington's door.

Turning the handle softly, she stepped inside.
He did not hear her.

He was leaning over a box of papers, and they rustled loudly under his hand.

He was humming to himself that song she heard an hour ago in Il Trovatore, that song of passion and love and tragedy.