“Here—what can I take back? Something solid. I’m sick to death of sevenpennies. Mother is comical, you know. She’s got twice my brains—but the books she chooses!” He laughed: “I know she goes by the cover.”
“You’ve read all these.” Laura ran her hand along the shelves. “No good giving you poetry, I suppose?” She pulled out Men and Women. “Remember how Oliver was always spouting the Italian things?”
He sighed.
“He gave me that book too, poor devil!”
She looked at him, startled.
“Why—what?”
“Didn’t you see it? Artists’ Rifles. Shot, his first week out.”
“Oliver?”
He looked at her with a sad enough smile.
“Brings it home a bit, doesn’t it?”