“Vee,” she said, “come home. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. She liked to do it for Cathy Beck, so that she could relax after waitressing all day at the Big Apple with a homemade meal. But he didn’t marry her.
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