From 0da97e6142dc9ad26e02ad04a50297e9ee57b322 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: vr8ce Date: Sat, 9 Nov 2019 23:00:42 -0600 Subject: [PATCH] [Waifs] Remove editorial note --- src/epub/text/the-dog-and-the-playlet.xhtml | 1 - 1 file changed, 1 deletion(-) diff --git a/src/epub/text/the-dog-and-the-playlet.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-dog-and-the-playlet.xhtml index cf6fb63..54accd4 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/the-dog-and-the-playlet.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-dog-and-the-playlet.xhtml @@ -8,7 +8,6 @@

The Dog and the Playlet

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[This story has been rewritten and published in “Strictly Business” under the title, The Proof of the Pudding.]

Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway in that month and get a story out of the drama. I found one a few breathless, parboiling days ago, and it seems to decide a serious question in art.

There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me⁠—and two or three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun to draw for additional funds. Every evening Hollis and I prowled about the deserted town searching for coolness in empty cafés, dining-rooms, and roofgardens. We knew to the tenth part of a revolution the speed of every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed the swiftest as they varied. Hollis’s fiancée. Miss Loris Sherman, had been in the Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month. In another week he would join her party there. In the meantime, he cursed the city cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered him to show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we dined together.

My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.