” “No. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. At length, when he saw no escape from the inevitable, he took the four title pages from the manuscripts and typed new ones, substituting Taber for Spurlock. She found next morning, when she came to this advertisement answering, that it was more difficult than she had supposed. Anna was more difficult. The bridge was open. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. . It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. E.
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