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Tarkington, Booth, 1869-1946

"The Turmoil, a novel"

Lamhorn. They looked up
in no welcoming manner, at Bibbs's entrance, and moved their chairs to
a less conspicuous adjacency.
"Good evening," said Bibbs, pleasantly; and he seated himself in a
leather easy-chair near them.
"What is it?" asked Edith, plainly astonished.
"Nothing," he returned, smiling.
She frowned. "Did you want something?" she asked.
"Nothing in the world. Father and mother have gone up-stairs; I
sha'n't be going up for several hours, and there didn't seem to be
anybody left for me to chat with except you and Mr. Lamhorn."
"'CHAT with'!" she echoed, incredulously.
"I can talk about almost anything," said Bibbs with an air of genial
politeness. "It doesn't matter to ME. I don't know much about
business--if that's what you happened to be talking about. But you
aren't in business, are you, Mr. Lamhorn?"
"Not now," returned Lamhorn, shortly.
"I'm not, either," said Bibbs. "It was getting cloudier than usual,
I noticed, just before dark, and there was wind from the southwest.
Rain to-morrow, I shouldn't be surprised."
He seemed to feel that he had begun a conversation the support of
which had now become the pleasurable duty of other parties; and he
sat expectantly, looking first at his sister, then at Lamhorn, as
if implying that it was their turn to speak.


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