” He stared at her, trying to guess at the mystery of her thoughts. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. And he liked her. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice.
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