“You know her?”
“Why, yes—I––”
“So do I. Those books,” he waved his hand toward the loaded shelves, “she gave them all to me for my mission boat!” 221
Terabon stared. He went to the shelves and looked at the volumes. In each one he found the little bookmark which she had used in cataloguing them:
Nelia Carline,
A Loved Book.
No. 87
A jealous pang seized him, in spite of his reportorial knowledge that jealousy is vanity for a literary person.
“I ’low we mout ’s well drop out,” Rasba suggested. “Missy Crele’s down below some’rs. Her boat floated out to’d mornin’, one of the boys said.”