He declined to believe that
Ann, his Ann, a girl full of the finest traits of character, the
girl who had been capable of encouraging a comparative stranger
to break the law by impersonating her cousin Jimmy Crocker, could
also be capable of writing The Lonely Heart and other poems. He
skimmed through the first one he came across, and shuddered. It
was pure slush. It was the sort of stuff they filled up pages
with in the magazines when the detective story did not run long
enough. It was the sort of stuff which long-haired blighters read
alone to other long-haired blighters in English suburban
drawing-rooms. It was the sort of stuff which--to be brief--gave
him the Willies. No, it could not be Ann who had written it.
The next moment the horrid truth was thrust upon him. There was
an inscription on the title page.
"To my dearest uncle Peter, with love from the author, Ann
Chester."
The room seemed to reel before Jimmy's eyes. He felt as if a
friend had wounded him in his tenderest feelings. He felt as if
some loved one had smitten him over the back of the head with a
sandbag. For one moment, in which time stood still, his devotion
to Ann wobbled. It was as if he had found her out in some
terrible crime that revealed unsuspected flaws in her hitherto
ideal character.
Then his eye fell upon the date on the title page, and a strong
spasm of relief shook him. The clouds rolled away, and he loved
her still.
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