He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. "You're wanted. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. I was in hopes you'd be content with my hat and wig. ’ He sighed elaborately. I didn't understand then, but I do now. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation.
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