“I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She held out her arms to him and smiled. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. Again having recourse to the centre-bit,—for Winifred's door was locked,—Jack had nearly cut out a panel, when a sudden outcry was raised in the carpenter's chamber.
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