That night in his den he smoked many pipes. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. You have been burning paper, I see. “How are those books any different from the witchcraft books?” “I dunno. He had not remembered her as looking so small. ‘I do not steal,’ declared the lady hotly. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. So it is that I do not do these things. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else.
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