That none of them, except the two
college boys, had ever thanked him for his assistance--a fact well
known to Miss Felicia--never once crossed his mind--wouldn't have
made any difference if it had.
"But this young Breen is worth saving, Felicia," he answered at
last.
"From what--the penitentiary?" she laughed--this time with a
slight note of anger in her voice.
"No, you foolish thing--much worse."
"From what, then?"
"From himself."
Long after his sister had left the room Peter kept his seat by the
fire, his eyes gazing into the slumbering coals. His holiday had
been a happy one until Jack's entrance: Morris had come to an
early breakfast and had then run down and dragged up Cohen so that
he could talk with him in comfort and away from the smell of the
tailor's goose and the noise of the opening and shutting of the
shop door; Miss Felicia had summoned all her good humor and
patience (she did not always approve of Peter's acquaintances--the
little tailor being one), and had received Cohen as she would have
done a savant from another country--one whose personal appearance
belied his intellect but who on no account must be made aware of
that fact, and Peter himself had spent the hour before and after
breakfast--especially the hour after, when the Bank always claimed
him--in pulling out and putting back one book after another from
the shelves of his small library, reading a page here and a line
there, the lights and shadows that crossed his eager, absorbed
face, an index of his enjoyment.
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