But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. “It might be a policeman borrowing the driveway and looking out for speeders. Love and companionship. Then the incredible happened. I'll wait for you down here. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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