"
But she was not speachless. If she was speachless for the
next half hour, I would hate to hear her really converse. And
all that I could do was to bear it. For I had made a
Frankenstein--see the book read last term by the Literary
Society--not out of grave-yard fragments, but from malted milk
tablets, so to speak, and now it was pursuing me to an early
grave. For I felt that I simply could not continue to live.
"Now--where does he live?"
"I--don't know, mother."
"You sent him a Letter."
"I don't know where he lives, anyhow."
"Leila," mother said, "will you ask Hannah to bring my
smelling salts?"
"Aren't you going to give me the book?" I asked. "It--it
sounds interesting."
"You are shameless," mother said, and threw the thing into
the fire. A good many of my things seemed to be going into the
fire at that time. I cannot help wondering what they would have
done if it had all happened in the summer, and no fires burning.
They would have felt quite helpless, I imagine.
Father came back just then, but he did not see the Book,
which was then blazing with a very hot red flame.
Pages:
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63