"Those poor hand! It is I who should kiss
them, Mademoiselle, not you."
"Kiss them?" gasped Miss Clinton.
"Of no doubt," said Madame Obosky readily. "Do they not pain because
of me? Should I not kiss the hand who snatch me from the horrible
death? From the Kingdom Come, as the doctor he say to me such a
little time ago. And you, Mademoiselle, who have not been save by
him from the Kingdom Come, you attend his hands and make him to be
greatly comfortable."
"I am merely dressing the burns, Madame Obosky," said the other,
coldly. "I have done as much for the other poor fellows who--"
"I know, I know," broke in the Russian, smiling. "You must not be
offend with me if I speak your language so badly."
"It strikes me you speak it most acceptably," interposed Percival.
"What is your name?" she asked abruptly. "I have heard you called
the stowaway. No one has speak your name to me."
"My name is Percival," said he.
"It is a pretty name," said she, dubiously. "But surelv you do
not approve of me to call you Percival so quick. What is the other
name, the name I am to--"
"That's the trouble with a name like mine. It sounds so beastly
informal when you leave off the Mister, and it sounds as if you'd
been a servant in the family for at least one generation if you
stick it on.
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