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. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. Every rule is against me—Why did I let you begin this? I might have told—” “I don’t see that you could help—” “I might have helped—” “You couldn’t.
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