Earles glanced at it, and his eyes flashed with anger. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Should be home soon. “A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour ago we should have greeted you in pained silence. I’ve had a headache all day. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. Gerald? But could he be here so quickly? She hastily dabbed at her eyes, thankful for the darkness that she saw had come on outside unnoticed, dimming the room. “Very well,” said her father. " "Can I trust him?" mused Jack.
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