“Thank Heaven!” said my dear mother, and I was not pleased.
Says my sister:
“Do you know, he’s actually stolen Leah’s photograph, that she gave me for my birthday. He asked me for it and I wouldn’t give it him—and it’s gone!”
Then I washed and put on my work-a-day clothes, and went straight to Barge Yard, Bucklersbury, and made myself a bed on the floor with my great-coat, and slept all day.
Oh heavens! what a dull book this would be, and how dismally it would drag its weary length along, if it weren’t all about the author of Sardonyx!
But is there a lost corner anywhere in this planet where English is spoken (or French) in which The Martian won’t be bought and treasured and spelt over and over again like a novel by Dickens or Scott (or Dumas)—for Josselin’s dear sake! What a fortune
