He paid no attention to anyone. His attitude,
Curiously like his father's, was perfectly definite to Howard. It
meant that from that time forward there were to be no words of
any sort between them. It meant that they were no longer brothers,
not even acquaintances. "How inexorable that face!" thought
Howard.
He turned sick with disgust and despair, and would have closed his
trunk without showing any of the presents, only for the childish
expectancy of his mother and Laura.
"Here's something for you, Mother," he said, assuming a cheerful
voice as he took a fold of fine silk from the trunk and held it up.
"All the way from Paris."
He laid it on his mother's lap and stooped and kissed her, and then
turned hastily away to hide the tears that came to his own eyes as
he saw her keen pleasure.
"And here's a parasol for Laura. I don't know how I came to have
that in here. And here's General Grant's autobiography for his
namesake," he said with an effort at carelessness, and waited to
hear Grant rise.
"Grant, won't you come in?" asked his mother quiveringly.
Grant did not reply nor move. Laura took the handsome volumes
out and laid them beside him on the table.
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