Little more’n a week. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. When she judged that she must be nearly back at the library, she began to feel somewhat dispirited. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. Here you only waste your time. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t.
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