. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. And Pottiswick, of course. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. “Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. “I can survive on my own. ’ You used to declare that you hated the name. ‘Here you, Pottiswick.
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