"No, I'm not," she answered. "I'm frightened of nobody."
He said nothing to that, but stared fixedly in front of him.
"I'm in a bad mood," he said. "I've been trying for weeks to get on
with a novel. Just a fortnight ago a young man and a young woman
took shelter from the rain in the doorway of a deserted house--
they're still there now, and they haven't said a word to one another
all that time."
"Why not?" asked Maggie.
"They simply won't speak," he answered her.
"Well then, I should start another story," said Maggie brightly.
"Ah," he said, shaking his head. "What's the use of starting one if
you know you're never going to finish it, what's the use of
finishing it if you know no one is ever going to read it?" Maggie
shook her head.
"You've changed. When I saw you last you told me that you didn't
mind whether any one ever read them or not, and that you just wrote
them because you loved doing them."
"Every author," said Mr. Magnus gloomily," says that to himself when
he can't sell his books, but it's all vainglory, I'm afraid."
"I can't help being glad," Maggie answered. "There are such
interesting things you might do.
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