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Frederic, Harold, 1856-1898

"The Market-Place"


"I've given between five and six thousand pounds to
London hospitals within the present year," he added,
straightening himself. "I wonder you didn't see it.
It was in all the papers."
"Hospitals!"
It was impossible to exaggerate the scorn which her
voice imported into the word. He looked at her with
unfeigned surprise, and then took in the impression that she
was upon a subject which exceptionally interested her.
Certainly the display of something approaching animation
in her glance and manner was abnormal.
"I said 'do some GOOD with your money,'" she reminded him,
still with a vibration of feeling in her tone. "You must
live in the country, if you think London hospitals are
deserving objects. They couldn't fool Londoners on that point,
not if they had got the Prince to go on his hands and knees.
And you give a few big cheques to them," she went on,
meditatively, "and you never ask how they're managed,
or what rings are running them for their own benefit,
or how your money is spent--and you think you've done
a noble, philanthropic thing! Oh no--I wasn't talking
about humbug charity. I was talking about doing some
genuine good in the world."
He put his leg over the high stool, and pushed his hat
back with a smile. "All right," he said, genially.
"What do you propose?"
"I don't propose anything," she told him, after a
moment's hesitation.


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