Oh, I like that!' So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming.

Amy sat with folded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the epic humour.
In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties threatened their life.
Every now and then Reardon looked up from his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.
When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his wife's chair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.
'Amy!' 'Yes, dear ?' 'Do you still love me a little ?' 'Much more than a little.' 'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler ?' 'Is it so bad as all that ?' 'Confoundedly bad.

I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofs will be a martyrdom.' 'Oh, but why?
why ?' 'It's the best I can do, dearest.

So you don't love me enough to hear that calmly.' 'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin.

It's dreadful to me to think of what they will say in the reviews.' 'Curse the reviews!' His mood had changed on the instant.