On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Your mother arrived, and she knew me for what I was, she whispered to me curses against werewolves and vampires when I was alone in a room with her. But the first one was brought home, and it was the beginning of the end. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. "Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question.
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