I have had to go to school these two days and then I have to study
medicine with Lovelace Peyton almost all of every afternoon, so I
haven't much time; but I think by to-morrow night I will have told
about a thousand dollars' worth of things about my father and I can
send it all off to Cousin Gilmore Lewis. The time the butler in our
North Shore cottage, summer before last, told the newspapers so many
things about the way Father and his family lived, he got three hundred
dollars for it; so it does seem that if his own daughter told almost a
whole small book about Father it would be worth at least a thousand
dollars to a big magazine that prints things about everything in the
world.
I heard Cousin Gilmore tell Father last spring that it wouldn't be
long before he got to him in his magazine, and I have two reasons for
wanting to beat the one who is going to write Father up. One is that I
need the money for Lovelace Peyton's eyes, and the other is that
before all this comes out about Father and the stolen steel patent, I
want to write about him like he might be, and ignore what the world
may consider him.
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