She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. “One hardly knows—all the time. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering.
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