Gosse sneered. It was as though he were personally aggrieved. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. "I am innocent, f have stolen nothing. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ” “You must admit,” he declared, “that to us—who had seen you—the thought of your trying anything else was amazing.
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