But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. “It means that I have had enough of this slavery,” she declared. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it.
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