When first you left your home you had no idea that I was the hidden impulse. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna’s ear. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. “I suppose he’s frightfully clever,” said Miss Klegg. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. I would have married her long ago, but she will not have me.
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