[Trumps by George William Curtis]@TWC D-Link book
Trumps

CHAPTER XI
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The old man was white with wrath.

He had his cane in one hand, and Hiram held the other hand and arm.
He had come in from the garden, and as he stopped in the dining-room to take a little trip to the West Indies, he had heard voices in the drawing-room.

Summoning Hiram to know if they were visitors, he had learned the awful truth which apprised him that his Hesperidian wall was down, and that the robbers at that very moment might be shaking his precious fruit from the boughs.

To be sure he had himself left the gate open.

Do you think, then, it helps a man's temper to be as furious with himself as with other people?
He burst into the room.
There stood Hope: Abel at her side, in the merry midst of his talk, with his sketch in his hand, his port-folio under his arm, and his finger pointed toward the portrait; Gabriel, at a little distance, confounded and abashed by an acquaintance between Hope and Abel of which he had no previous suspicion.


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