David laid down his book.
“When you are through dreaming of cats,” he said, “I’ll be able to read.”
Myra rose.
“I cannot bear to think of a cat out on a night like this—a little homeless cat.”
Then she walked from the room.
David mused. Cats! Nothing but cats! She had gone insane on the subject of cats. He had never known her to be so unreasonable about cats. She seemed worse since their cat, Rodolpho, had died. Her mind seemed now occupied with nothing but cats. He was sure she had been writing something about cats in her book.
To prove his contention he walked to the desk. He picked up the small, leather-bound book. He read:
“THE SNOWSTORM.
“Against the pane the snow flakes press
Like dainty kitten paws.