I hastened on: my knees now trembled under me: I was getting quite exhausted.
No inn was this.

A brass-plate embellished the great porte-cochere: "Pensionnat de Demoiselles" was the inscription; and beneath, a name, "Madame Beck." I started.

About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in a moment.

Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time.
Providence said, "Stop here; this is _your_ inn." Fate took me in her strong hand; mastered my will; directed my actions: I rang the door-bell.
While I waited, I would not reflect.

I fixedly looked at the street-stones, where the door-lamp shone, and counted them and noted their shapes, and the glitter of wet on their angles.