Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. That is, until I investigated Iovelli-Alberti in the Fourteenth Century!” They reached a part of the subdivision dubbed “The Treehouse”, a popular hangout for edgy teens who smoked joints in its foundation pits. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs.
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