"I don't know," she answered vaguely. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. . So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. Capes came back into her mind. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us.
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