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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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

Is she quite sane?"
Jack scanned Peter's face and read the truth. Corinne had
evidently told him everything. This was the severest blow of all.
"She supposed you knew, sir;" answered Jack quietly, further
concealment now being useless.
"Knew what?" Peter was staring at him with wide-open eyes.
"What she told you, sir," faltered Jack.
The old man threw up his hands in horror.
"What! You really mean to tell me, Jack, that Minott has been
stealing?"
Jack bent his head and his eyes sought the floor. He could hardly
have been more ashamed had he himself been the culprit.
"God bless my soul! From whom?"
"The church funds--he was trustee. The meeting is to-morrow, and
it would all have come out."
A great light broke over Peter--as when a window is opened in a
darkened room in which one has bees stumbling.
"And you have walked the streets trying to beggar yourself, not to
help MacFarlane but to keep Minott out of jail!" Amazement had
taken the place of horror.
"He was my friend, sir--and there are Corinne and the little boy.


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