Till then she had not known that her father had been murdered, much less that she was suspected of killing him.

Dizziness had swept over her.

Things seemed to spin round her, yet she saw them rotating with a kind of dreadful distinctness--the false smiling faces of the women, the furniture, a cat blinking on the hearthrug, an empty coffee cup on a small table.

One stout lady, enthroned on a pile of red and blue cushions, sailed round and round on a sofa with the preposterous repetition and tragic reality of a fat woman on a roundabout.

Then the circling faces and furniture vanished.