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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"A Sappho of Green Springs"

Mr. Bent's forge! It must be nearly
daylight now; the poor fellow had been up all night, or else was
stealing this early march on the day. She recalled Adele's sudden
eulogium of him. The first natural smile that had come to her lips since
the earthquake broke up her nervous restraint, and sent her back more
like her old self to her couch.
But she had not proceeded far towards the tent, when she heard the sound
of low voices approaching her. It was the major and his wife, who, like
herself, had evidently been unable to sleep, and were up betimes. A new
instinct of secretiveness, which she felt was partly the effect of her
artificial surrounding, checked her first natural instinct to call to
them, and she drew back deeper in the shadow to let them pass. But to
her great discomfiture the major in a conversational emphasis stopped
directly in front of her.
"You are wrong, I tell you, a thousand times wrong. The girl is simply
upset by this earthquake. It's a great pity her father didn't come
instead of telegraphing.


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