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"A good idea," said Grainger, mopping the tablecloth with his napkin. "I'll speak to the waiter about it." Kappelman, the painter, was the cut-up. As a piece of delicate Athenian wit he got up from his chair and waltzed down the room with a waiter.
There is a large round table in the northeast corner of Andre's at which six can sit. To this table Grainger and Mary Adrian made their way. Kappelman and Reeves were already there. And Miss Tooker, who designed the May cover for the Ladies' Notathome Magazine. And Mrs.
But don't sit in your usual chair. There's pie in it Meringue. Kappelman threw it at Reeves last evening while he was reciting. Sophy has just come to straighten up. Is it lit? Thanks. There's Scotch on the mantel oh, no, it isn't, that's chartreuse. Ask Sophy to find you some. I won't be long." Grainger escaped the meringue. As he waited his spirits sank still lower.
I read it to her because I knew that all the printing-presses in the world were running to try to please her and some others. And I asked her about it. "I didn't quite catch the trains," said she. "How long was Mary in Crocusville?" "Ten hours and five minutes," I replied. "Well, then, the story may do," said Minnie. "But if she had stayed there a week Kappelman would have got his kiss."
At exactly half past eleven Kappelman, deceived by a new softness and slowness of riposte and parry in Mary Adrian, tried to kiss her. Instantly she slapped his face with such strength and cold fury that he shrank down, sobered, with the flaming red print of a hand across his leering features. And all sounds ceased, as when the shadows of great wings come upon a flock of chattering sparrows.
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