He put the candle on a chair, nearly falling as he did so, then came
towards her. He stood over her, his shirt, open at the neck,
protuberating over his stomach, his short thick legs swaying. His
red, unshaven face with the trembling lips was hateful to her.

Suddenly he sat on the edge of her bed and put his hands out towards
her. He caught her hair.

"My little Maggie--my little Maggie," he said.

The fright, the terror, the panic that seized her was like the
sudden rising of some black figure who grew before her, bent towards
her and with cold hard fingers squeezed her throat. For an instant
she was helpless, quivering, weak in every bone of her body.

Then some one said to her:

"But you can manage this."

"I can manage this," she answered almost aloud.

"You're alone now. You mustn't let things be too much for you."

She jumped out of bed, on the farther side away from her uncle. She
put on her dressing-gown. She stood and pointed at the door.

"Now, uncle, you go back to your room at once. It's disgraceful
coming in the middle of the night and disturbing every one. Go back
to bed."