Leaving the panel wide, Melusine dashed to the library door and flung it open, racing into the hall. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. This occasioned a little delay; but Jack, whose skill as a workman in the particular line he had chosen was unequalled, and who laughed at difficulties, speedily cut out a panel by means of a centre-bit and knife, took the key from the other side, and unlocked the door. Melusine cursed herself for his injury. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. Jonathan, however, was nowhere to be seen. I sha'n't cry any more. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. She thought Alice a bit of a sneak, an opinion her brothers shared, and Gwen rather a snatch at meals. If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her.
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