” She said as she rested her head against his chest, eyes unfocused on the fading sky. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. “I’ll buy a new one.
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