" To himself Peter said, "I must write Green and the rest to
telegraph me every day."
"Now we'll have a cup of tea," said Leonore. "I like politics."
"Then you would like Albany," said Peter, putting a chair for her by the
little tea-table.
"I wouldn't live in Albany for the whole world," said Leonore, resuming
her old self with horrible rapidity. But just then she burnt her finger
with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty
vanished in a wail. "Oh!" she cried. "How it hurts."
"Let me see," said Peter sympathetically.
The little hand was held up. "It does hurt," said Leonore, who saw that
there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared Peter
would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered.
But Peter treated it very seriously. "I'm sure it does," he said, taking
possession of the hand. "And I know how it hurts." He leaned over and
kissed the little thumb. Then he didn't care a scrap whether Leonore
liked Albany or not.
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