Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed
page 63 of 323 (19%)
page 63 of 323 (19%)
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"But cooking isn't theory," he ventured, picking up the note-book; "it's practice. What good is all this going to do you when you have no stove?" "Don't you remember the famous painter who told inquiring visitors that he mixed his paints with brains? I am now cooking with my mind. After my mind learns to cook, my hands will find it simple enough. And some time, when you come in at midnight and have had no dinner, and the immigrant has long since gone to sleep, you may be glad to be presented with panned oysters, piping hot, instead of a can of salmon and a can-opener." "Bless your heart," answered Allan, fondly. "It's dear of you, and I hope it'll work. I'm starving this minute--kiss me." "'Longing is divine compared with satiety,'" she reminded him, as she yielded. "How could you get away? Was nobody ill?" "Nobody would have the heart to be ill on a Saturday in June, when a doctor's best girl was only fifty miles away. Monday, I'll go back and put some cholera or typhoid germs in the water supply, and get nice and busy. Who's up yonder?" indicating the hotel. "Nobody we know, but very few of the guests have come, so far." [Sidenote: "Guests"] "In all our varied speech," commented Allan, "I know of nothing so exquisitely ironical as alluding to the people who stop at a hotel as |
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