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. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. His face was downcast. “No,” said her brother, conclusively, “it’s not for a parent to go on persuading a child. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. ” “You are not a coward,” she repeated, “or you would not be my friend. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply.
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