“This ain’t no place for you. “Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?” he asked Anna. 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. "But to the point," continued Wild, unconscious of the peril in which the remark had placed him,—"to the point. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched.
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