This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. It is bad policy. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. ” “We’ll have, thank God! ten myriad days to tell each other things. He looked at her in some embarrassment.
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