A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. You simply can’t. She had but to choose. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. I worship you. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. Once I banged on the door so hard I split it in two. But to live at peace with your neighbour…. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded.
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