“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed. “I look older.
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