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Tracy, Louis, 1863-1928

"The Postmaster's Daughter"

He moistened his
thin lips with his tongue.
"As a study in contrasts, that would be hard to beat," he said, after a
long pause.
"Contrasts!" she echoed.
"Well, yes. Even an uncontentious man like myself can hardly fail to
compare Sunday afternoon with Tuesday morning."
"Why not Monday night?" she flashed.
"Monday night, in part, remains a mystery yet to be unveiled. I blot
Monday night from my mind. I have no alternative, being on the jury
which has to arrive at a just verdict. Now, if Fred Elkin were here, he
would foam at the mouth."
"Happily, Fred Elkin is _not_ here."
"Ah, I am glad, glad, to hear you say that. You don't like him?"
"I detest him."
"He makes out, to put it mildly, that you are great friends."
"You will oblige me by contradicting the statement. Or--no. One treats
that sort of man with contempt."
"I agree with you most heartily. I'm sorry I ever mentioned him."
Yet Doris was well aware that the chemist had dragged in Elkin by the
scruff of the neck, probably for the sake of getting him disposed of
thoroughly and for all time. Rather on the tiptoe of expectation, she
awaited the next move. It was slow in coming, so again she looked
wistfully at the distant tea-drinkers.


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