“I — I have almost finished it in my mind, but I have found no chance to begin with the actual writing. I was sick of late, very sick.”
No doubt of it! His face was pinched and pale, and the lines about the mouth were curiously contorted, like those of a man suffering from a painful internal disease.
“Tell me,” she ventured, “do you ever miss anything?”
“Do you mean — are there thieves?”
“Thieves! Against thieves one can protect oneself.”
He stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some dreadful revelation. His dream! His dream! That hand! Could it be more than a dream? God! His lips quivered.