Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. “Twenty-two. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. Hist!’ he added, as he turned his head and noticed Alderley’s glance. “Wow. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him.
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