Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. 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. As Gosse pushed her around it, she felt his hold about her of necessity loosen slightly. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips.
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