The book on her lap lay open at a coloured lithograph of Mazeppa bound upon his steed and in full flight across the Tartar steppes.

She knew the story--was it not Mr.Maggs's most thrilling "equestrian _finale_," and first favourite with the public?
At another time she would have examined the picture eagerly.

But now it swam before her, unmeaning.

She closed the book, threw a glance around the four corners of the room, another at the stuffed kestrel--whose pitiless small eye strangely resembled Doctor Glasson's--and dragged herself to the window.
The lower panes of the window were filled with coloured transparencies representing in series the history of the Prodigal Son.

They excluded a great deal of daylight and the whole of the view.