“But—your people!” she gasped. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. It must be somewhere hereabouts. 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. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. Challenge accepted. As long as I live here, you stop fucking the children and you stop trying to fuck me. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked. " "I understand," replied Thames; "be it as you will.
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