..he looked, as it were,
into the pulsing heart of something which had scarcely
seemed alive to him before.
Eventually, he found himself halting at the door of his
sister's book-shop. A new boy stood guard over the stock
exposed on the shelf and stands outside, and he looked stonily
at the great man; it was evident that he was as far from
suspecting his greatness as his relationship. It pleased
Thorpe for a little to take up one book after another,
and pretend to read from it, and force the boy to watch
him hard. He had almost the temptation to covertly slip
a volume into his pocket, and see what the lad would do.
It was remarkable, he reflected with satisfaction--this
new capacity within him to find drama in trifles.
There floated into his mind the recollection of some absurd
squabble he had had with his sister about the sign overhead.
He stepped back a few paces and looked up at it.
There were the old words--"Thorpe, Bookseller"--right enough,
but they seemed to stand forth with a novel prominence.
Upon a second glance, he saw that the board had been repainted.
At this he laughed aloud. The details of the episode
came back to him now. For some reason, or no reason
at all--he could not now imagine what on earth could
have prompted him--he had last spring caused his sister
to be informed of his wish that her own name, Dabney,
should be substituted for that of Thorpe on her sign.
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