The man was dangerous. Then she called a hansom and drove home. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. “What are you doing?” he asked. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. She saw his face change, how he regretted.
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