Manchurian Books

On the spot I named him Harold
Valentine, and I wrote the name on the envelope that had the
poem inside, and addressed it to the town where this school gets
its mail.
It looked well written out. "Valentine," also, is a word
that naturaly connects itself with affairs _de cour_. And I felt
that I was safe, for as there was no Harold Valentine, he could
not call for the letter at the post office, and would therefore
not be able to cause me any trouble, under any circumstances.
And, furthermore. I knew that Hannah would not mail the letter
anyhow, but would give it to mother. So, even if there was a
Harold Valentine, he would never get it.
Comforted by these reflections, I drank my malted milk,
ignorant of the fact that Destiny, "which never swerves, nor
yields to men the helm"--Emerson, was stocking at my heels.
Between sips, as the expression goes, I addressed the
envelope to Harold Valentine, and gave it to Hannah. She went
out the front door with it, as I had expected, but I watched
from a window, and she turned right around and went in the area
way. So _that_ was all right.


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