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His large hands, sensual lips, easy voice supported his self-confidence. He made her feel young and soft as Kennicott had once made her feel. She had nothing to say when he bent his powerful head and experimented, "My dear, I'm sorry I'm going away from this town. You'd be a darling child to play with. You ARE pretty! Some day in Boston I'll show you how we buy a lunch.
"Say, jever notice how Mrs. Kennicott fusses around the house? Other evening when I was coming over here, she'd forgot to pull down the curtain, and I watched her for ten minutes. Jeeze, you'd 'a' died laughing. She was there all alone, and she must 'a' spent five minutes getting a picture straight.
We all know how he loves his fun!" "You bet. I'm a jokey old bird. Come on, Carrie; let's beat it," remarked Kennicott. Raymie implored, "And what is your chief artistic interest, Mrs. Kennicott?" "Oh " Aware that the traveling salesman had murmured, "Dentistry," she desperately hazarded, "Architecture." "That's a real nice art.
They ate their sandwiches by a prairie slew: long grass reaching up out of clear water, mossy bogs, red-winged black-birds, the scum a splash of gold-green. Kennicott smoked a pipe while she leaned back in the buggy and let her tired spirit be absorbed in the Nirvana of the incomparable sky. They lurched to the highroad and awoke from their sun-soaked drowse at the sound of the clopping hoofs.
"She looks lonely," said Kennicott. "She does, poor soul. I believe I'll go over and speak to her. I was introduced to her at Dave's but I haven't called." Carol was slipping across the lawn, a white figure in the dimness, faintly brushing the dewy grass. She was thinking of Erik and of the fact that her feet were wet, and she was casual in her greeting: "Hello!
She lustily played Tschaikowsky the virile chords an echo of the red laughing philosopher of the tar-paper shack. Oh yes. Fixes things. Kennicott had returned at midnight. At breakfast he said four several times that he had missed her every moment. On her way to market Sam Clark hailed her, "The top o' the mornin' to yez! Going to stop and pass the time of day mit Sam'l? Warmer, eh?
Fact, Mrs. Kennicott, I'll say that far as I can make out, the only people in this man's town that do have any brains I don't mean ledger-keeping brains or duck-hunting brains or baby-spanking brains, but real imaginative brains are you and me and Guy Pollock and the foreman at the flour-mill. He's a socialist, the foreman. "Indeed no, I sha'n't tell him."
However, he made an effort to be cheerful. Miss Adams wrote on June 14, 1782: 'On Wednesday we had here a delightful blue-stocking party. Dr. and Mrs. Kennicott and Miss More, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Henderson, &c., dined here. Poor Dr.
"And that," said Kenny with icy politeness, "unalterably defines my status as a painter. In this club at least." "You asked me " Kenny looked tired but he held out his hand. "Dear lad," he said, "'twas fine brave friendship to tell me when I asked you." Failure! He, Kennicott O'Neill who had been decorated by the French government!
Carol wondered why Guy Pollock went on digging at routine law-cases; why he remained in Gopher Prairie. She had no one whom she could ask. Neither Kennicott nor Vida Sherwin would understand that there might be reasons why a Pollock should not remain in Gopher Prairie. She enjoyed the faint mystery. She felt triumphant and rather literary. She already had a Group.
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