But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. ’ Dieu du ciel, but she was a fool. ’ ‘Who was to know if you would find your place?’ countered Martha. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. Annabel entered. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. We came on here at once. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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