It's yours--not mine. I WILL have it
that way--you are getting old, and you need it."
Peter broke into a laugh. It was the only way he could keep down
the tears.
"What a dear boy you are, Jack," he said, backing toward the sofa
and regaining his seat. "You've got a heart as big as a house, and
I'm proud of you, but no--not a penny of your money. Think a
moment! Your father didn't leave the property to me--not any part
of it--he left it to you, you spendthrift! When I get too old to
work I am going up to Felicia's and pick out an easy-chair and sit
in a corner and dry up gradually and be laid away in lavender. No,
my lad, not a penny! Gift money should go to cripples and
hypochondriacs, not to spry old gentlemen. I would not take it
from my own father's estate when I was your age, and I certainly
won't take it now from you. I made Felicia take it all." Jack
opened his eyes. He had often wondered why Peter had so little and
she so much. "Oh, yes, nearly forty years ago! But I have never
regretted it since! And you must see how just it was, for there
wasn't enough for two, and Felicia was a woman.
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