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Drew sprang up, rolled his eyes in the general direction of Heaven, chucked his watch into his pocket, and demanded, "Has the deputation come yet, Sheldy?" "Yep, right outside," Sheldy answered, with equal liveliness; then, caressingly, to Babbitt, "Brother, if it would help, I'd love to go into the next room and pray with you while Dr.
As Babbitt went out to his car that evening he saw Vergil Gunch coming down the block. He raised his hand in salutation, but Gunch ignored it and crossed the street. He was certain that Gunch had seen him. He drove home in sharp discomfort.
Overbrook, peering out of her fog of nursing eight children and cooking and scrubbing, tried to be conversational. "I suppose you go to Chicago and New York right along, Mr. Babbitt," she prodded. "Well, I get to Chicago fairly often." "It must be awfully interesting. I suppose you take in all the theaters." "Well, to tell the truth, Mrs.
But as they had gone conscientiously through each of these analyses before, the conversation staggered. Babbitt tried to be intellectual and deal with General Topics. He said some thoroughly sound things about Disarmament, and broad-mindedness and liberalism; but it seemed to him that General Topics interested Tanis only when she could apply them to Pete, Carrie, or themselves.
Babbitt did not drive home, but toward the center of the city. He wished to be by himself and exult over the beauty of intimacy with William Washington Eathorne. A snow-blanched evening of ringing pavements and eager lights. Great golden lights of trolley-cars sliding along the packed snow of the roadway. Demure lights of little houses.
But before the captain could reply Winslow, turning away from the window, did so for him. "If it is, I should say 'twas a pretty complete job," he drawled. "I don't know when I've heard fewer things left out. You have reason to be proud, both of you. And now, Phineas," he went on, "what's it all about? What's the matter?" Mr. Babbitt waved his fists again, preparatory to another outburst.
So thoroughly was Minnesota under the feet of slavery, that in September, '60 after we thought the State redeemed the house of William D. Babbitt, in Minneapolis, was surrounded from midnight until morning by a howling mob, stoning it, firing guns and pistols, attempting to force doors and windows, and only prevented gaining entrance by the solidity of the building and the bravery of its defense.
It is true that he hadn't, in twenty-five years, himself played any baseball except back-lot catch with Ted very gentle, and strictly limited to ten minutes. But the game was a custom of his clan, and it gave outlet for the homicidal and sides-taking instincts which Babbitt called "patriotism" and "love of sport."
"Now, Phin," he protested, "seems to me " But Babbitt was too excited to heed. His little eyes snapped and his bristling beard quivered. "You hold your horses, Shavin's," he ordered. "I didn't come here to listen to you. I came because I had somethin' to say and when I've said it I'm goin' and goin' quick. My boy's been home. You knew that, I suppose, didn't you?" Jed nodded.
"I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!" "Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!" Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy. She was no older than Zilla, but she seemed so at first. She was placid and puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and tight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked. "The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!"
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