Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. She was quite unconcerned.
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