"But what did you think of 'The Man
Who Couldn't Die'?"
"It didn't seem to me," Doris said slowly, "that the man who wrote the
last book could possibly have written the first. That _was_ life. Your
man there was a real man, and you made his hopes and fears, his love
and sufferings, very vivid. Your woman was real enough too, but I
didn't like her. It didn't seem to me she was worth the pain she
caused."
"Neither did she seem so to Phillips, if you remember," Lawanne said.
"That was his tragedy--to know his folly and still be urged blindly on
because of her, because of his own illusions, which he knew he must
cling to or perish. But wait till I finish the book I'm going to write
this winter. I'm going to cut loose. I'm going to smite the
Philistines--and the chances are," he smiled cynically, "they won't
even be aware of the blow. Did you read those books?" He turned
abruptly to Myra.
She nodded.
"Yes, but I refuse to commit myself," she said lightly. "There is no
such thing as a modest author, and Mrs. Hollister has given you all
the praise that's good for you.
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