So, without
taking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casually
locked her in the sitting-room closet one morning. She had stepped
inside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy,
swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key.
He paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hear
her bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out. But when she made no
outcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there was
no further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs to
the schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit.
For a full minute after she found herself in darkness, Claire did not
realize she was a prisoner. The door had swung to after her, she
thought, that was all. But, when she turned the knob, and still it did
not open, she began to suspect the truth. Her first impulse was to call
out, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait with
what dignity she might until Radcliffe tired of his trick, or some one
else came and released her.
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