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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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


I AM tired, I guess, Cory, and bed's the best place for me. Good-
night, old man,--give my love to Ruth," and he followed his wife
out of the room.
Jack waited until the two had turned to mount the stairs, caught a
significant flash from Garry's dark eyes as a further reminder of
his silence, and, opening the front door, closed it softly behind
him.
Ruth was waiting for him. She had been walking the floor during
the last half hour peering out now and then into the dark, with
ears wide open for his step.
"I was so worried, my precious," she cried, drawing his cheek down
to her lips. "You stayed so long. Is it very dreadful?"
Jack put his arm around her, led her into the sitting-room and
shut the door. Then the two settled beside each other on the sofa.
"Pretty bad,--my darling--" Jack answered at last,--"very bad,
really."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Worse,--he has been dabbling in Wall Street and may lose every
cent he has."
Ruth leaned her head on her hand: "I was afraid it was something
awful from the way Corinne spoke.


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