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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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

And yet when
he had again taken her hand--the warmth of his last pressure still
lingered in her palm--and had looked into her eyes and had said
how he hoped he had not kept her waiting, all she could answer in
reply was the non-committal remark:
"Well, now you look something like"--at which Jack's heart gave a
great bound, any compliment, however slight, being so much manna
to his hungry soul; Ruth adding, as she led the way into the
sitting-room, "I lighted the wood fire because I was afraid you
might still be cold."
And ten minutes had been enough for Ruth.
It had been one of those lightning changes which a pretty girl can
always make when her lover is expected any instant and she does
not want to lose a moment of his time, but it had sufficed.
Something soft and clinging it was now; her lovely, rounded figure
moving in its folds as a mermaid moves in the surf; her hair
shaken cut and caught up again in all its delicious abandon; her
cheeks, lips, throat, rose-color in the joy of her expectancy.
He sat drinking it all in.


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