“On the doorstep, with the street before her, she felt a mad throb of liberation, intoxicating as the prisoner’s first draught of free air; but the clearness of the brain continued, and she noted the mute aspect of Fifth Avenue, guessed at the lateness of the hour, and even observes a man’s figure–was there something half-familiar in its outline?–which, as she entered the hansom, turned from the opposite corner and vanished into the obscurity of the side street.”

-Edith Wharton