In the course of the evening Maxwell managed an introduction. He found
Anne quaint and charming. That she was reading Dickens amused him. He
had thought that no one read Dickens in these days. How did it happen?
She said that she had discovered him for herself--many years ago.
How many years?
Well, to be explicit, ten. She had been eleven when she had found a new
world in the fat little books. They had a lot of old books. She loved
them all. But Dickens more than any. Didn't he?
He did. "His heart beat with the heart of the common people. It was that
which made him great."
"Murray hates him."
"Who is Murray?"
Anne pondered. "Well, he's a family friend. We girls were brought up on
him."
"Brought up on him?"
"Yes. Anything Murray likes we are expected to like. If he doesn't like
things we don't."
"Oh."
"He's over there by Mrs. Winchell."