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Excerpt from Nurse Benson
Topham Moxon permitted himself to sigh as he scanned, with properly controlled adoration, an adorable counte nance. How well he knew it in the ¿esh, as in this image, with its crown of fair hair, with its smiling eyes, wherein, a wilful spirit ambushed, with its comely mutinous mouth. Topham Moxon was not a poet, he had no desire to be a poet; he had never, since the enforced latinity of his schoo 1 days, made the faintest attempt to woo the Muse. But now? Some dumb atom of divinity in his composition seemed tc:' stir and pulse, and disturb his uniformity, seeking the voice it could not find.
Mr. Topham Moxon replaced the photograph upon ite allotted portion of mahogany and drew from an innes': breast pocket a closely folded piece of paper, a page fron one of the j ournals of that day's date. He smoothed ic; out upon the desk and surveyed it pensively. His gaz was set on the column where fashionable intelligence as setted its right to ignore all other matters in a reeling world and his lips softly whispered to himself the syllables of particular paragraph.
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