Aware that he should incur the thief-taker's bitterest animosity by what he had done, the watchman, whose wrath against Quilt Arnold had evaporated during the walk, thought it more prudent not to hazard a meeting with his master, till the storm had, in some measure, blown over. Lucy didn’t seem like a teenage girl at all to Sheila and she knew it. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms.
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