She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. I believe I am doomed to be an old maid.
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