Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. The plank hung over his head.
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