"I left her making up the
fellow's bed when I came in here."
"The bed of the Jacobin?" she said in a peculiar tone as if she
were humouring a lunatic.
"I think I had better tell you he is a Spaniard--that he seems to
know you from early days. . . ." I glanced at her face, it was
extremely tense, apprehensive. For myself I had no longer any
doubt as to the man and I hoped she would reach the correct
conclusion herself. But I believe she was too distracted and
worried to think consecutively. She only seemed to feel some
terror in the air. In very pity I bent down and whispered
carefully near her ear, "His name is Ortega."
I expected some effect from that name but I never expected what
happened. With the sudden, free, spontaneous agility of a young
animal she leaped off the sofa, leaving her slippers behind, and in
one bound reached almost the middle of the room. The vigour, the
instinctive precision of that spring, were something amazing. I
just escaped being knocked over. She landed lightly on her bare
feet with a perfect balance, without the slightest suspicion of
swaying in her instant immobility. It lasted less than a second,
then she spun round distractedly and darted at the first door she
could see.
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