She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. "Give me the child, or—" As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between him and God. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind.
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