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"Did Zanti tell you to say this to me?" "No, he says nothing. It is only I as a friend, you understand " "Well, thank you very much," said Peter at last. Herr Gottfried, he reflected, must think that he, Peter, had mints of money if he could so lightly and on so slender a warning propose his abandoning his precious two pounds a week. Moreover there was loyalty to Mr.
Peter felt that Mr. Zanti had a great deal that he would like to say to him, and once or twice he came to him and began "Oh, I say, boy," and then stopped with an air of confusion as though he had recollected something, suddenly. There was a Russian girl, too, who was about the shop, uneasily on this day. She was thin, slight, very dark; fierce eyes and hands that seemed to be always curving.
Zanti rolled his big body casually to the door and looked down the street, Stephen, smiling at Peter said: "I was just passing, so I thought to myself I'd just look in," his voice came from his beard like the roll of the sea from a cave. "Just for an hour, maybe. It's a long day since we've 'ad a bit of a chat, Mr. Peter." Peter could not take it on that casual scale.
The evening too seemed to bring forward a renewed hope of seeing Stephen again enquiries could bring nothing from either Zanti or Herr Gottfried; they had never heard of the man, oh no!... Stephen Brant? Stephen ...? No! Never That sudden springing out of the darkness had meant something however. Peter could still feel his wet clothes and see his shining beard.
His fat fingers curved in the air with the eager anticipation of it words, actual words had not as yet come to him, but, crowing and gurgling, he informed the world that he wanted, he demanded, instantly, that he should roll Mr. Zanti. "Well, old man, how are you?" said Peter. But he would not look at his father. His arms stretched toward Mr. Zanti.
Zanti, "is my young friend, Peter Westcott, whom I love as if 'e were my own son Signor Rastelli," he continued, turning to Peter, "I've known him for very many years and I can only say zat ze longer I 'ave known him ze more admirable I 'ave thought 'im." The gentleman took off his tall hat, stroked it, put it on again and looked, with his languid eyes, at Peter. "And," continued Mr.
But there was more than this in his thoughts. As he looked at Mr. Zanti, at his wild black locks, his flaming cheeks, his rolling eyes, his large red hands, he was aware suddenly that Clare would not appreciate him. It was the first time since his marriage that there had been any question of Clare's criticism, but now he knew, with absolute certainty, that Mr.
And yet he was astonishingly simple about it all very young and very naive. The two things that he felt about it were, first, that it would please very much his friends Bobby and his wife, Mrs. Brockett, Norah Monogue, Mr. Zanti, Herr Gottfried and, above all, Stephen; and secondly, that all those early years in Cornwall the beatings, his mother, Scaw House, even Dawson's had been of use to him.
Zanti had been dimmed by a small boy's wonder. Now Peter was old enough to see him very clearly indeed. Mr. Zanti seemed fat only because his clothes were so tight. He was bigly made and his legs and arms were round, bolster fashion huge thighs and small ankles, thick arms and slender wrists. His clothes were so tight that they seemed in a jolly kind of way to protest.
Peter hiding under a chair or a sofa. "Oh! Stephen, after all this long long while! Why didn't you come before when Mr. Zanti came?" "Too many of us coming, Mr. Peter, and you so busy." "Nonsense. I'm not in the least busy.
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