“Why do you kill me?” Michelle asked. " "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton. He was angry. “Great. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. That blow made me a thief. I dare say it will be chattered about for weeks.
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