She’s right upstairs. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. She found she could do her microscope work all the better for being in love. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage.
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