Chapter 15

“He’ll be picked up dead some morning—he’ll fall under his horse’s hooves and be trampled to death,” said Cousin Stickles reassuringly. Valancy had said nothing, of course; but she wondered to herself if Roaring Abel’s periodic sprees were not his futile protest against the poverty and drudgery and monotony of his existence. _She_ went on dream sprees in her Blue Castle. Roaring Abel, having no imagination, could not do that. _His_ escapes from reality had to be concrete. So she waved at him today with a sudden fel…