"And your hands were beautiful even then."
"I used to cry sometimes when I looked at myself in the glass as a
child," she confessed. "My hands were the only thing that consoled
me."
"I kissed them once," he told her. "You were asleep, curled up in
Uncle Ab's chair."
"I wasn't asleep," said Ann.
She was seated with one foot tucked underneath her. She didn't look
a bit grown up.
"You always thought me a fool," he said.
"It used to make me so angry with you," said Ann, "that you seemed
to have no go, no ambition in you. I wanted you to wake up--do
something. If I had known you were a budding genius--"
"I did hint it to you," said he.
"Oh, of course it was all my fault," said Ann.
He rose. "You think she means to come?" he asked. Ann also had
risen.
"Is she so very wonderful?" she asked.
"I may be exaggerating to myself," he answered. "But I am not sure
that I could go on with my work without her--not now."
"You forgot her," flashed Ann, "till we happened to quarrel in the
cab."
"I often do," he confessed. "Till something goes wrong. Then she
comes to me. As she did on that first evening, six years ago. You
see, I have been more or less living with her since then," he added
with a smile.
"In dreamland," Ann corrected.
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