"Do you write that sort of stories?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, shamefaced.
"I don't like any of you," he says. "You make fun of a little boy."
He turns his back on me and, proud and wet, goes indoors without once
looking round.
This evening, Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen disappear in a
mysterious manner, which is never explained. He will miss them greatly,
at first; but he will never be fooled again, not if I were to give him
the sun and moon in his hand.