Chapter 14 No.14

I regret to admit that Mr. Woods did not toss feverishly about his bed

all through the silent watches of the night. He was very miserable,

but he was also twenty-six. That is an age when the blind bow-god

deals no fatal wounds. It is an age to suffer poignantly, if you will;

an age wherein to aspire to the dearest woman on earth, to wri