Jimmie went in and turned and closed the door.
The swift-changing complexion of her thoughts was in her eyes. Shock, fear, a search for an alibi, and the discovery of one. Then a short struggle for self-mastery. “I was cleaning out the closets! I found these! You can’t expect a girl to resist such a temptation.”
He said nothing.
“How did you get them?” Her blue eyes were certain, now. She interpreted his silence as guilty panic.
“What else did you find?”
“Oh, when I snoop I’m thorough! I found a picture of an English girl. You could tell she was English a mile away—by her bad clothes. Sloppy. I made the obvious mental note that she resembled our Audrey—the author, here. Quite a bit. She’s like a dowdy, spiritual Audrey. Who is she?”
“And what else?”
“Nothing. I found these and I started reading. I don’t think any novel I ever read was half as—as absorbing. Of course, I know a good many of the characters. That makes a difference. In fact, one or two of them were courting me—in a nice way—when they were courting Audrey, or vice versa—in a way that isn’t quite so nice. It’s all very interesting—and disillusioning. I rather thought I knew my stuff in this village. I begin to realize, though, that I’m a piddling amateur!”
“How long have you been reading?”
“All morning.”