I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. But it sounds too real to be imagined. Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. Run away now, please. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. But this I cannot do.
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