But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. It’s just upon my lunch-time. Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. “Sure, I guess so.
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