Verman took life as it came.
Naturally, he fell asleep. And toward the conclusion of his
slumbers, he had this singular adventure: a lady set her foot
down within less than half an inch of his nose--and neither of
them knew it. Verman slept on, without being wakened by either
the closing or the opening of the door. What did rouse him was
something ample and soft falling upon him--Margaret's cape, which
slid from the hook after she had gone.
Enveloped in its folds, Verman sat up, corkscrewing his knuckles
into the corners of his eyes. Slowly he became aware of two
important vacuums--one in time and one in his stomach. Hours had
vanished strangely into nowhere; the game of bonded prisoner was
something cloudy and remote of the long, long ago, and, although
Verman knew where he was, he had partially forgotten how he came
there. He perceived, however, that something had gone wrong, for
he was certain that he ought not to be where he found himself.
WHITE-FOLKS' HOUSE! The fact that Verman could not have
pronounced these words rendered them no less clear in his mind;
they began to stir his apprehension, and nothing becomes more
rapidly tumultuous than apprehension once it is stirred.
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