To be conscious in any way toward it is to be fatally infected." "What novelist ?" Advena asked, with shining interest.
"Some novelist.

I--I can't have invented it," he replied, somewhat confounded.

He got up and walked to the window, where it stood open upon the verandah.

"I don't write novels," he said.
"Perhaps you live them," suggested Advena.

"I mean, of course," she added, laughing, "the highest class of fiction." "Heaven forbid!" "Why Heaven forbid?
You are sensitive to life, and a great deal of it comes into your scope.