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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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

Come,
what shall I tell her?"
Jack shifted his shoulders so that he could move the easier and
with less pain, and raised himself on his well elbow. There was no
use of his hoping any more; she had evidently sent Miss Felicia to
end the matter with one of her polite phrases,--a weapon which
she, of all women, knew so well how to use.
"Give Miss Ruth my kindest regards," he said in a low voice, still
husky from the effects of the smoke and the strain of the last
half-hour--"and say how thankful I am for her gratitude, and--No,
--don't tell her anything of the kind. I don't know what you are to
tell her." The words seemed to die in his throat.
"But she will ask me, and I have got to say something. Come,--out
with it." Her eyes were still on his face; not a beat of his wings
or a squirm of his body had she missed.
"Well just say how glad I am she is at home again and that her
father is getting on so well, and tell her I will be up and around
in a day or two, and that I am not a bit worse off for going to
the station yesterday.


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