“I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. “Oh good. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street.
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