82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. Visiting? Dressed for it, certainly. “Like what, Lucy?” She saw the panic threaten to overtake him. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead.
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