What's it like, Joan?" "It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards. Leonardo was to me nothing at all. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. It was plain that a man of his age could only be interested for one reason alone, yet she felt compelled to at know him a little before the main event. ’ To her astonishment, Gosse’s servile attitude vanished abruptly. .
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