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The Balance of Power
BY MAURICE THOMPSON
"I don't hesitate to say to you that I regard him as but a small remove in
nature from absolute trash, Phyllis--absolute trash! His character may be
good--doubtless it is; but he is not of good family, and he shows it. What
is he but a mountain cracker? There is no middle ground; trash is trash!"
Colonel Mobley Sommerton spoke in a rich bass voice, slowly rolling his
words. The bagging of his trousers at the knees made his straight legs
appear bent, as if for a jump at something, while his daughter Phyllis
looked at him searchingly, but not in the least impatiently, her fine gray
eyes wide open, and her face, with its delicately blooming cheeks, its
peach-petal lips, and its saucy little nose, all attention and
half-indignant surprise.
"Of course," the Colonel went on, with a conciliatory touch in his words,
when he had waited some time for his daughter to speak and she spoke
not--"of course you do not care a straw for him, Phyllis; I know that. The
daughter of a Sommerton couldn't care for such a--"
"I don't mind saying to you that I do care for him, and that I love him,
and want to marry him," broke in Phyllis, with tremulous vehemence, tears
gushing from her eyes at the same time; and a depth of touching pathos
seemed to open behind her words, albeit they rang like so many notes of
rank boldness in the old man's ears.
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