A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. As O'Higgins signed the hotel register, his keen glance took in the latest signatures. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. It was not for a week or a month. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. He must be gone to dispose of the body. My nerves are shaken.
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