ggs here?

There were two doors to the apartment in which she lay, one, ornate with
Turkish fretwork, which had in its center panel what seemed to be a
small window, covered by a black grille. At the other end of the room
another door, open, from which came a flicker of cool light, the soft
pad of footsteps and the sound of a voice humming some curious Oriental
air. Marishka did not get up at once, but sat among the pillows, her
fingers at her temples as she tried to collect her thoughts. She knew
that she must think. Everything seemed to depend upon the clearness with
which her mind emerged from the fog of dreams. Slowly, the happenings of
the last few days recurred--the flight, the wild ride down the ravines
of the Brod, Sarajevo, the tragedy, the car of Death! She put her
fingers before her eyes and then straightened bravely. And what now?
Goritz! What was he going to do with her? She tried to judge the future
by the past. She had given herself unreservedly into his hands in the
hope of reaching Sophie Chotek before--before what had happened. Their
interests had been identical--the saving of life--and if they had
succeeded, there would have been no need for anxiety as to her own
future. But now the situation seemed to have changed. Failure had marked
her for its own, an unbidden guest in a strange country in which she was
for the present at the mercy of her captor. She could not forget that
she was his prisoner, and the terms of her promise to him came to her
with startling clearness. His recantation, his courtesy, his ardent
looks had allayed suspicion, but had not quite removed the earlier
impression. In this hour of awakening and depression there seemed to be
room for any dreadful possibility.

Was she a prisoner? If so, the window was not barred, and she saw that
it let upon the tiny garden fifteen feet below. If she could gather the
strength, it might not be difficult to lower herself from the window
sill--drop to the garden and flee. But where? To whom? She turned
quickly, listening for the sounds of the footsteps in the adjoining
room, her hand at her breast, where her heart was throbbing with a new
hope. Hugh! Hugh in Sarajevo! And yet why not? It came to her in a throb
of joyous pride that in spite of all that she had done to deter him, he
had persisted in helping and protecting her, oblivious of her denial of
him and of her cutting disdain. But would the frail clew of her flight
through Vienna be enough to