I know something about men. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. It could not be she who had done this. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. What was to hinder me, if I had been so inclined, from directing them to your retreat?" "Enough," replied Darrell.
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