A WIND FLOWER
marble-topped table in the parlour, he shuddered sympathetically.
"But I walk a good deal," she volunteered. "I've been all over that ledge you're painting."
"Isn't it beautiful?" he said. "It reminds me of a poem I read somewhere about the beauty of Appledore—that's on this coast somewhere, too, isn't it? You'd appreciate the poem, I'm sure—do you care for poetry?"
She piled the dishes on a tray, and carried it through the door before he had time to take it from her.
"No," she replied over her shoulder, "no, I don't care for it. It seems so—so smooth and shiny, somehow."
"Smooth? shiny?" he smiled as she came back, "I don't see."
Her high, rather indifferent voice fell in a slight embarrassment, as she explained: "Oh, I mean the rhymes and the verses—they're so even and like a clock ticking."
He took from his pocket a little red book. "Let me read you this," he said eagerly, "and see if
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