"I should have thought," she said, "that writing-table drawer was enough."
"It isn't."
"Tt-t—" Mamma nodded her head in a sort of exasperated resignation.
"Do you mean to say you're going to keep all that?"
"All that? You should see what I've burnt."
"I should like to know what you're going to do with it!"
"So should I. That's just it—I don't know."
That night the monstrous thought came to her in bed: Supposing I published those poems—I always meant to do it some day. Why haven't I? Because I don't care? Or because I care too much? Because I'm afraid? Afraid that if somebody reads them the illusion they've created would be gone?
How do I know my writing isn't like my playing?
This is different. There's nothing else. If it's taken from me I shan't want to go on living.