Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. I completed it according to the directions, you see, and it was a beautiful machine, a triangle sort of, with a steering column I built out of an old wheelbarrow and a hubcap. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. “Those things are not for me just at present.
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