Bianca bowed her head. “It is very late, Dad,” she whispered.
Mr. Stone's hand moved as though he would have stroked her.
“The human heart,” he murmured, “is the tomb of many feelings.”
Bianca put her arm round him.
“You must go to bed, Dad,” she said, trying to get him to the door, for in her heart something seemed giving way.
Mr. Stone stumbled; the door swung to; the room was plunged in darkness. A hand, cold as ice, brushed her cheek. With all her force she stiffed a scream.
“I am here,” Mr. Stone said.
His hand, wandering downwards, touched her shoulder, and she seized it with her own burning hand. Thus linked, they groped their way out into the passage towards his room.
“Good-night, dear,” Bianca murmured.
By the light of his now open door Mr. Stone seemed to try and see her face, but she would not show it him. Closing the door gently, she stole upstairs.