They used to laugh at me all day long."
Mary's gaze was averted from Bibbs now; she sat with her elbow resting
on the arm of the chair, her lifted hand pressed against her cheek.
She was staring at the wall, and her eyes had a burning brightness in
them.
"It doesn't seem possible any one could do that to you," she said, in
a low voice. "No. He's not kind. He ought to be proud to help you
to the leisure to write books; it should be his greatest privilege to
have them published for you--"
"Can't you SEE him?" Bibbs interrupted, a faint ripple of hilarity in
his voice. "If he could understand what you're saying--and if you can
imagine his taking such a notion, he'd have had R. T. Bloss put up
posters all over the country: 'Read B. Sheridan. Read the Poet with
a Punch!' No. It's just as well he never got the--But what's the
use? I've never written anything worth printing, and I never shall."
"You could!" she said.
"That's because you've never seen the poor little things I've tried
to do."
"You wouldn't let me, but I KNOW you could! Ah, it's a pity!"
"It isn't," said BIBBS, honestly. "I never could--but you're the
kindest lady in this world, Miss Vertrees.
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