I could never make you understand. "He can't get out. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. . A silence ensued. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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