Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. ‘Come on, Hilary. This was Blueskin, who burst through the trees, and sword in hand assaulted the thief-taker.
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