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Canfield, Dorothy, 1879-1958

"The Bent Twig"

"_Molly!_" he said, as if his point were more
than elucidated by the mere mention of her name.
Sylvia intimated with a laugh that her point was clearer yet in that
she had no name to mention. "But I never saw his nephew. I never even
heard of him until this minute."
"No, and very probably never will see him. He's very seldom here. And
if you did see him, you wouldn't like him--he's an eccentric of the
worst brand," said Morrison tranquilly. "But monomanias need no
foundation in fact--" He broke off abruptly to say: "Is this all
another proof of your diabolical cleverness? I started in to hear
something about yourself, and here I find myself talking about
everything else in the world."
"I'm not clever," said Sylvia, hoping to be contradicted.
"Well, you're a great deal too nice to be _consciously_ so," admitted
Morrison. "See here," he went on, "it's evident that you're more
than a match for me at this game. Suppose we strike a bargain. You
introduce yourself to me and I'll do the same by you. Isn't it quite
the most fantastic of all the bizarreries of human intercourse that
an 'introduction' to a fellow-being consists in being informed of his
name,--quite the most unimportant, fortuitous thing about him?"
Sylvia considered. "What do you want to know?" she asked finally.
"Well, I'd _like_ to know everything," said the man gaily. "My
curiosity has been aroused to an almost unappeasable pitch.


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