But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. She was radiant. Still, I am curious. "I'd lay down my life for yours. Wild," said the turnkey, trembling in every joint. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. It makes me desire life beyond measure.
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