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Updated: May 21, 2025
He wrote a book after that, but the publishers failed, and Mallencroft couldn't even find a copy of it. That must have been about the time you saw him when he lectured on 'Life. Poor old Hendry! It's his pride, his confounded pride that's the trouble." I had risen. Rufus Blight came to me and laid a hand on each of my shoulders. What a change since that day long ago!
The Philadelphia man you told me of Harassan dead three years. My secretary, Mallencroft, has found that in San Francisco a man named Henderson worked on The Press there, but only two men remembered him. They said he was erratic, always in trouble by writing things contrary to the paper's policy, and gave up in disgust, to ship as supercargo on a vessel trading in the South Seas.
At my entreaty she overcame her pride and wrote to Mr. Blight inquiring as to Penelope's welfare. In return her existence was recognized; hardly more than that, for the great man did not trouble himself with a personal answer. His reply was given vicariously, through one P. T. Mallencroft, his secretary, on flawless paper, three sentences in bold clear type and a Spencerian signature closing it.
It was a bloodless thing. It spoke the commands of omnipotence as though carved on tablets of stone. Mrs. Malcolm's favor of the 10th ultimo was acknowledged; Mr. Blight instructed Mr. Mallencroft to thank Mrs. Malcolm for the interest which she had shown, and to assure her that Miss Penelope was quite well. It was perfectly polite.
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