In her lap was
Stuart Harley's book, and daintily pasted on the fly-leaf of this was
the portrait which had appeared in the August issue of The Literary
Man, which she had cut out and preserved.
Having provided the heroine with a spot conducive to her comfort, I
hastened to transport Harley to the scene. It was easy to do, seeing
how deeply interested I was in my plot and how willing he was. I got
him there looking like a Greek god, only a trifle more interesting,
because of his sympathy-arousing pallor--the pallor which comes from
an undeserved buffeting at the hands of a mischievous Cupid. I know
it well, for I have observed it several times upon my own
countenance. The moment Harley appeared upon the scene I chose to
have Marguerite hastily clasp the book in her hands, raise it to her
lips, and kiss the picture--and it must have been intensely true to
life, for she did it without a moment's hesitation, almost
anticipating my convenience, throwing an amount of passion into the
act which made my pen fairly hiss as I dipped it into the ink.
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