The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “You too were deceived. But the Remenhams in the days of Charles the First, with the need for an escape route from Cromwell’s increasingly victorious forces, had cut a trapdoor through its floor into the cellars below, and thence hewn the long rough passageway that led underground right outside the boundary of the estate. “Do all foster kids have the instinct?” Michelle asked naively. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom.
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