The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Possessed of you, I shall have a treasure such as kings could not boast. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. Darrell stopped, and drew his sword. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Of you, I mean. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom.
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