"You are feeling
all right, I hope," he would have added, as the result of an afterthought;
but the connection was broken.
Randolph left the instrument. He felt dashed, a good deal disappointed, and
a little hurt. He took two or three folders from a pigeon-hole and dropped
them into a waste-basket. Well, the boy doubtless had his reasons. But a
single good one, frankly put forth, would have been better than duplicate
or multiple reasons. He hoped that, on Sunday, a cold drizzle rather than a
flood of sunlight might fall upon the autumn foliage of Indian Rock. And he
would turn to-morrow to good account by looking, for an hour or two, at
china.
Sunday afternoon was gorgeously bright and autumnal in Churchton, whatever
it may have been along the middle reaches of the Illinois river; and at
about four o'clock Randolph found himself in front of Medora Phillips'
house. Medora and her young ladies were out strolling, as was inevitable on
such a day; but in her library he found Foster lying on a couch--the same
piece of furniture which, at a critical juncture, had comforted Cope.
"Peter brought me down," said the cripple.
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