“I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me. Wood the carpenter. He is in the care of those who will not leave the task assigned to them—the utter perversion of his principles—half-finished. The change will come to-day. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. She approached a soft-looking bespectacled girl she had seen once in the halls and noticed for her haunted look.
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