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But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. "Your master wants a few table-spoons, child," said Mrs. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent.
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