She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. Hastily ascending these steps, Jack found the door, as he anticipated, locked. We went our ways. Ann Veronica passed from her aunt to her father, and put her arms about him and kissed his cheek.
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