“Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. " "And what—what was your answer?" demanded the widow, eagerly. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. She recoiled. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. As soon as he gets into blue water, he'll think no more of pitching the boy overboard than of lighting his pipe. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
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