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The only place for Kedzie to sit was next to a couple of negroes, the man in Ethiopian foppery grinning up into the face of a woman who held his hat and cane, and simpered in ebony. Kedzie whispered to Gilfoyle her displeased surprise: "Why, they act just like we do." Kedzie liked to use like like that.
In some of the interviews Kedzie gave opinions she had never held on themes she had never heard of. When she read that her favorite poet was Rabindranath Tagore she wondered who that "gink" was. When she read that she owed her figure to certain strenuous flexion exercises she decided that they might be worth trying some day.
Thropp saw Dyckman's smile, but did not dare to ask its origin. She asked, instead: "Would you be having a church wedding, do you think?" "Indeed not," said Dyckman, with such incision that Mrs. Thropp felt it best not to risk a debate. "Just a quiet wedding, then?" "As quiet as possible, if you don't mind." Kedzie sat speechless through all this.
Turkish sultans as fierce as Suleiman the Magnificent have bought country girls kidnapped by slave-merchants and have bought tyrants in the bargain. Ferriday the Magnificent was playing with holocaust when he set a match to Kedzie. But now she was an attractive little flame and he watched her soul flicker and gave it fuel.
The other nymphs, wood and water, giggled and shook with sisterly affection. Kedzie was the wettest dryad that ever was. She stumbled forward, groping. Jim Dyckman bent, slipped his hands under her arms, and hoisted her to land. He felt ludicrous, but his chivalry was automatic. Kedzie was so angry at herself and everybody else that she flung off his hands and snapped, "Quit it, dog on it!"
There is a big ballroom scene to be staged tomorrow, and a low dance-hall the next day, and on Monday a crowd of starving Belgian peasants. We could use you in those, but of course you wouldn't care to accept the pay." She said this hopefully. Kedzie answered, hopelessly: "What's the pay?" "Three dollars." "I'll take it."
Yet she has never been, can never be, re-ribbed especially not since marriage is an attempt to fit her into the anatomy of an Adam who is always, in a sense, a stranger to her. Kedzie gazed on her Adam with a sense of departure, of farewell. She felt a trifle sorry for Gilfoyle, and the moment she resolved to quit him he became a little more attractive.
Kedzie was not in any mood for parents that night, anyway, but if she had to have parents, she would have chosen an earl and a countess with a Piccadilly accent and a concert-grand manner. Such parents it would have given her pleasure and pride to exhibit to Dyckman. They would awe-inspire him and arrange the marriage settlement, whatever that was.
It was her name in the heavy type that caught the heavy eyes of Jim Dyckman at breakfast the next morning. It was thus that he came upon the fate of Thomas Gilfoyle, whose death had been the cause of all this pother. Before he could telephone Anita or Kedzie, as he mentally corrected himself he was informed that a Mr. Connery was at the door, asking for him.
You know the game, but you've got to quicken your speed. You're taking too much footage in getting to the climax." Kedzie was still incandescent with the new information: "And Jim Dyckman paid for my advertising?" "On condition that his name was kept out of it. That's why you're famous.
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