�No—hush!�
�Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that.�
�The future?�
�In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven�t promised?�
She shook her head.
�Don�t, then; remember that.�
She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock.
As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of ravaged brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strange face, seen momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain as part of an inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reached out like the cry of an imprisoned anguish.
Wyant turned away impatiently.
�Rubbish!� he said to himself. �She isn�t walled in; she can get out if she wants to.�