They were the only real marriages she had seen clearly. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. She loved him. She waited expectantly. She got up and unlocked the door.
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