"_Now_," she announced, "I see plainly what he intends doing. He is
going to destroy that will, and burden me once more with a large and
influential fortune. I don't want it, and I won't take it, and he
might just as well understand that in the very beginning. I don't care
if Uncle Fred did leave it to me--I didn't ask him to, did I? Besides,
he was a very foolish old man--if he had left the money to Billy
_everything_ would have been all right. That's always the way--my
dolls are invariably stuffed with sawdust, and I _never_ have a dear
gazelle to glad me with his dappled hide, but when he comes to know me
well he falls upon the buttered side--or something to that effect. I
hate poetry, anyhow--it's so mushy!"
And this from the Miss Hugonin who a week ago was interested in the
French _decadents_ and partial to folk-songs from the Romaic! I think
we may fairly deduce that the reign of Felix Kennaston is over. The
king is dead; and Margaret's thoughts and affections and her very
dreams have fallen loyally to crying, Long live the king--his Majesty
Billy the First.
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