There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. “I believe,” he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments of Miss Pellissier. They sat down at the dining room table which seemed empty and 259 huge in the stark, white-walled room. Leonardo was to me nothing at all. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. Yes; she had heard the music the night before. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases. “After all, how easy the descent is, even for the greatest of us. Stanley determined to improve the occasion. Yes, I can readily believe it. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease.
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