"That's a good story, lad. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. CHAPTER XXVII.
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