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The Velvet Glove by Henry Seton Merriman
page 19 of 299 (06%)
oddly-rounded forehead. His eyes were dark, and he betrayed scarcely any
emotion at the sight of his father in this lamentable plight.

"Ah!" said the elder man. "It is you. You look like a monk. Are you one?"

"Not yet," answered the pale youth in a low voice with a sort of
suppressed exultation. Evasio Mon, watching him from the doorway, smiled
faintly. He seemed to have no misgivings as to what Leon might say.

"But you wish to become one?"

"It is my dearest desire."

The dying man laughed. "You are like your mother," he said. "She was a
fool. You may go back to bed, my friend."

"But I would rather stay here and pray by your bedside," pleaded the son.
He was a feeble man--the only weak man, it would appear, in the room.

"Then stay and pray if you want to," answered Mogente, without even
troubling himself to show contempt.

The notary was at his table again, and seemed to seek his cue by an
upward glance.

"You will, perhaps, leave your fortune," he suggested at length, "to--to
some good work."

But Evasio Mon was shaking his head.

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