She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder. CHAPTER XXVI. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. One must be on guard. My father died a year ago, by the way. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. Creative work appeals to me wonderfully.
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