There it was, a piece of plain good paper, ready for pen and ink and his letter to the Cure's brother in Paris--the only letter he would ever write, ever again until he died, so he told himself; but hold it up to the light and there was the name over which his letter must be written--Kathleen, invisible but permanent, obscured, but brought to life by the raising of a hand.
The girl caught the flash of feeling in his face, saw him holding the paper up to the light, and then, with an abstracted air, calmly lay it down.
"That will do, thank you," he said.

"Give me the whole packet." She wrapped it up for him without a word, and he laid down a two-dollar note, the last he had in the world.
"How much of this paper have you ?" he asked.

The girl looked under the counter.

"Six packets," she said.

"Six, and a few sheets over." "I will take it all.