I know now.
It is the Mary and the Marie trying to settle their old, old quarrel.
It was almost dark when I had finished the manuscript.

The far corners of the attic were peopled with fantastic shadows, and the spiders in the window were swaying, lazy and full-stomached, in the midst of the day's spoils of gruesome wings and legs.

I got up slowly, stiffly, shivering a little.

I felt suddenly old and worn and ineffably weary.
It is a long, long journey back to our childhood--sometimes, even though one may be only twenty-eight.
I looked down at the last page of the manuscript.

It was written on the top sheet of a still thick pad of paper, and my fingers fairly tingled suddenly, to go on and cover those unused white sheets--tell what happened next--tell the rest of the story; not for the sake of the story--but for my sake.