"
"I hope they're good books--books that are helpful." He paused to see that
no one was within earshot. "Books that bring sinners back to the Lord."
"I don't know what she writes; I only know she writes books; I think I've
heard she writes novels."
Fred did not approve of novels--Esther could see that--and she was sorry;
for he seemed a nice, clear-spoken young man, and she would have liked to
tell him that her mistress was the last person who would write anything
that could do harm to anyone. But her mistress was waiting for her paper,
and she took leave of him hastily. The next time they met was in the
evening. She was going to see if she could get some fresh eggs for her
mistress's breakfast before the shops closed, and coming towards her,
walking at a great pace, she saw one whom she thought she recognised, a
meagre little man with long reddish hair curling under the brim of a large
soft black hat. He nodded, smiling pleasantly as he passed her.
"Lor'," she thought, "I didn't know him; it's the stationer's foreman."
And the very next evening they met in the same street; she was out for a
little walk, he was hurrying to catch his train. They stopped to pass the
time of day, and three days after they met at the same time, and as nearly
as possible at the same place.
"We're always meeting," he said.
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