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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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

, etc., one editorial began.
It was only when the funeral was over, and she was once more at
home, that she expressed the slightest concern. Then she laid her
hand in Peter's and threw back her heavy crepe veil: "You have
saved me from disgrace, Mr. Grayson," she said, in a low,
monotonous voice, "and my little boy as well. I try to think that
Garry must have been out of his mind when he took the money. He
would not listen to me, and he would not tell me the truth. Jack
is going to pay it back to-morrow, and nobody will ever know that
my husband did wrong; but I couldn't let you go away without
thanking you for having saved us. My stepfather wouldn't help--
nobody would help but you. I don't know why you did it. It seems
so strange. I had given up all hope when Jack came back last
night."
Peter sat perfectly still, his hand on her wrist, where he had
placed it to show by a kindly touch his sympathy for her. Not
knowing what her lips would tell, he had begun to pat the back of
her black glove when she started to speak, as one would quiet a
child who pours out its troubles, but he stopped in amazement as
she proceeded.


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