"The carpenter writes
on a three-cornered block and puts it into his pocket,
and it's so uncomfortable he can't help remembering it.
Pen says she's going to adopt the three-cornered-block
plan with papa."
"Thank you," said Corey. "I believe I'll use your card."
He crossed over to her, and after a moment sat down on the
trestle beside her. She looked over the card as he wrote.
"Those are the ones we mentioned, but perhaps I'd better
add a few others."
"Oh, thank you," she said, when he had written the card
full on both sides. "He has got to get them in the
nicest binding, too. I shall tell him about their
helping to furnish the room, and then he can't object."
She remained with the card, looking at it rather wistfully.
Perhaps Corey divined her trouble of mind. "If he will
take that to any bookseller, and tell him what bindings
he wants, he will fill the order for him."
"Oh, thank you very much," she said, and put the card back
into her card-case with great apparent relief. Then she
turned her lovely face toward the young man, beaming with
the triumph a woman feels in any bit of successful manoeuvring,
and began to talk with recovered gaiety of other things, as if,
having got rid of a matter annoying out of all proportion
to its importance, she was now going to indemnify herself.
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