“I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. \" 49 She greeted him as he scanned her from head to toe, absorbing the lines of her figure as he was doing systematically with every other female in the parking lot. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. 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.
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