The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. It was a letter. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. It stunned her. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer.
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