Leslie insisted, so: the author, looking like a minister sternly sermonizing. As it happens, I was at the edge, and sometimes beyond the edge, of weeping throughout. Wrote the book with no hint of a tear, but something ticked over as soon as I tried to read the dedication to Leslie. Parishioners were so appalled, that when (every other sentence) I stopped reading to joke about what was happening (and regain composure), everybody laughed like mad, and then bought books like mad afterward. New technique in the literary vaudeville?