“I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never. For a few minutes all was silent. ‘Unless he is himself a man of substance. ” She sniffled. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them.
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