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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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

I never
saw one--nobody ever did. Here he comes with Mr. Grayson. I hope
you will like him."
Ruth made a movement as if to start to her feet. To sit still and
look her best and attend to her cups and hot water and tiny wafers
was all right for men like Jack, but not with distinguished men
like Mr. Morris.
Morris had his hand on her chair before she could move it back.
"No, my dear young lady--you'll please keep your seat. I've been
watching you from across the room sand you make too pretty a
picture as you are. Tea?--Not a drop."
"Oh, but it is so delicious--and I will give you the very biggest
piece of lemon that is left."
"No--not a drop; and as to lemon--that's rank poison to me. You
should have seen me hobbling around with gout only last week, and
all because somebody at a reception, or tea, or some such plaguey
affair, made me drink a glass of lemonade. Give it to this aged
old gentleman--it will keep him awake. Here, Peter!"
Up to this moment no word had been addressed to Jack, who stood
outside the half circle waiting for some sign of recognition from
the great man; and a little disappointed when none came.


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