“I guess I’m not the only one who wonders about your past. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. 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. Who invented them? Nobody knows. Besides, she had admitted her identity. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. It comes to this—am I to be trusted to take care of myself, or am I not?” “To judge from this proposal of yours, I should say not. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. ‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so.
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