" "That isn't a lie," he told himself, "I don't read them."
But he felt guilty. Clearly Peter was losing his old-time
straightforwardness.
"After its saying that you had deceived your clients into settling those
suits against Mr. Bohlmann, upon his promise to help you in politics, I
don't believe they can say anything worse," said Leonore, putting two
lumps of sugar (with her fingers) into a cup of tea. Then she stirred
the tea, and tasted it. Then she touched the edge of the cup with her
lips. "Is that right?" she asked, as she passed it to Peter.
"Absolutely," said Peter, looking the picture of bliss. But then he
remembered that this wasn't his role, so he looked sad and said: "That
hurt me, I confess. It is so unkind."
"Poor dear," whispered a voice. "You shall have an extra one to-day, and
you shall take just as long as you want!"
Now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an American newspaper,
with that prospect in view? It is true that "one" is a very indefinite
thing.
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