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Updated: May 10, 2025
What would have happened, I wonder, if father had not discharged Smith that night for carrying passengers to the Club from the railway station in our car, charging them fifty cents each and scraching the varnish with golf clubs? I know not. But it gave me the idea that ultamately ruined my dearest hopes. This was it.
"I do so want to help you," I said, in a louder tone. "Go, away" said his voice, rather abstracted than angry. "May I try the keys?" I asked. Be still, my Heart! For the scraching had ceased. "Who's that?" asked the beloved voice. I say `beloved' because an Ideal is always beloved. The voice was beloved, but sharp. "It's me." I heard him mutter somthing, and I think he came to the Door.
Not knowing, of course, that I had flung them, and that my reason was pure Friendliness and Idealizm, he through them out again with a violent exclamation. They fell at my feet, and lay there, useless, regected, tradgic. At last I summoned courage to speak. "Can't I do somthing to help?" I said, in a quaking voice, to the window. There was no anser, but I could hear a pen scraching on paper.
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