Nobody could have been more surprised than I was at what I had done--
done so neatly, so quietly and gently. The book stood closed, upright,
with its back to me, just as on a book-shelf, behind the bars of the
grate. There it was. And it gave forth, as the flames crept up the
blue cloth sides of it, a pleasant though acrid smell. My astonishment
had passed, giving place to an exquisite satisfaction. How pottering
and fumbling a thing was even the best kind of written criticism! I
understood the contempt felt by the man of action for the man of
words. But what pleased me most was that at last, actually, I, at my
age, I of all people, had committed a crime--was guilty of a crime. I
had power to revoke it. I might write to my bookseller for an unburnt
copy, and place it on the shelf where this one had stood--this
gloriously glowing one. I would do nothing of the sort. What I had
done I had done. I would wear forever on my conscience the white rose
of theft and the red rose of arson. If hereafter the owner of this
cottage happened to miss that volume--let him! If he were fool enough
to write to me about it, would I share my grand secret with him? No.
Gently, with his poker, I prodded that volume further among the coals.
The all-but-consumed binding shot forth little tongues of bright
colour--flamelets of sapphire, amethyst, emerald.
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