A cursory inspection of these revealed nothing
which gave promise of whiling away entertainingly the moments
which must elapse before the return of Ann. Jimmy's tastes in
literature lay in the direction of the lighter kind of modern
fiction, and Mr. Pett did not appear to possess a single volume
that had been written later than the eighteenth century--and
mostly poetry at that. He turned to the writing-desk near the
window, on which he had caught sight of a standing shelf full of
books of a more modern aspect. He picked one up at random and
opened it.
He threw it down disgustedly. It was poetry. This man Pett
appeared to have a perfect obsession for poetry. One would never
have suspected it, to look at him. Jimmy had just resigned
himself, after another glance at the shelf, to a bookless vigil,
when his eye was caught by a name on the cover of the last in the
row so unexpected that he had to look again to verify the
discovery.
He had been perfectly right. There it was, in gold letters.
THE LONELY HEART
BY
ANN CHESTER
He extracted the volume from the shelf in a sort of stupor. Even
now he was inclined to give his goddess of the red hair the
benefit of the doubt, and assume that some one else of the same
name had written it. For it was a defect in Jimmy's
character--one of his many defects--that he loathed and scorned
minor poetry and considered minor poets, especially when
feminine, an unnecessary affliction.
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