He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. Neither the American Express nor Cook's had received mail for Howard Taber; he was not on either list. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go.
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