W," said Mr. ’ Roding’s voice changed. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. ‘Oh, have you? Well, in that case, I love your little booted feet, and your ridiculously long eyelashes, and—’ THANK YOU! Thank you so much for downloading and reading my book. ” And then he speculated.
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