Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. " "That he is," added Blueskin, approvingly.
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