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Who Cares? a story of adolescence by Cosmo Hamilton
page 108 of 344 (31%)
"There are sandwiches in the dining room and various things to
drink," said Joan, waving her hand toward it.

"No, no. Let's go up to the drawing-room--that is, unless you--"

But Joan was already on the stairs, with the chorus of her song. She
didn't feel in the least like sleep with its escape from life. It
was so good to be awake, to be vital, to be tingling with the
current of electricity like a telegraph wire. She flung back the
curtains, raised all the windows, opened her arms to the air,
spilled her cloak on the floor, sat at the piano and ragged "The
Spring Song."

"I am a kid," she said, speaking above the sound, and going on with
her argument to Alice. "I am and I will be, I will be. And I'll play
the fool and revel in it as long as I can--so there!"

Palgrave had picked up the cloak and was holding it unconsciously
against his immaculate shirt. It was the sentimental act of a
virtuoso in the art of pleasing women--who are so easily pleased. At
the moment he had achieved forgetfulness of boudoir trickery and so
retained almost all his usual assumption of dignity. Even Joan, with
her quick eye for the ridiculous, failed to detect the bathos of his
attitude, and merely thought that he was trying to be funny and not
succeeding.

It so happened that over Palgrave's shoulder she could see the bold
crayon drawing of Martin, brown and healthy and muscular, without an
ounce of affectation, an unmistakable man with his nice irregular
features and clean, merry eyes. There was strength and capability
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