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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"


There was no knowing how long this absorbing conversation might
have continued (it had already attracted the attention of Miss
Felicia) had not a great stir taken place at the door of the
outside hall. Somebody was coming upstairs; or had come upstairs;
somebody that Peter was laughing with--great, hearty laughs, which
showed his delight; somebody that made Miss Felicia raise her head
and listen, a light breaking over her face. Then Peter's head was
thrust in the door:
"Here he is, Felicia. Come along, Holker--I have been wondering--"
"Been wondering what, Peter? That I'd stay away a minute longer
than I could help after this dear lady had arrived? ... Ah, Miss
Felicia! Just as magnificent and as young as ever. Still got that
Marie Antoinette look about you--you ought really--"
"Stop that nonsense, Holker, right away," she cried, advancing a
step to greet him.
"But it's all true, and--"
"Stop, I tell you; none of your sugar-coated lies. I am seventy if
I am a day, and look it, and if it were not for these furbelows I
would look eighty.


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