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Thot daay whan yo sot there in thot chair by t' fire, taalkin' t' mae and drinkin' yore tae so pretty." She drew closer to him. "Did you really love me then?" "Ay I looved yo than." She pondered it. "Jim what would you have done if I hadn't loved you?" He choked back something in his throat before he answered her. "What sud I have doon? I sud have goan on looving yo joost the saame.
In such a moment of soul dishabille and her own dishabille of bosom bulging above the tight lacing of her corset-line as she lay prone, her mouth sagging and wet with tears, her lips blowing outward in bubbles, a picture, in fact, to gloss over, Mae Munroe dragged herself closer, flinging her arms about the knees of Mr. Zincas, sobbing through her raw throat. "Just a month, Max! Don't ditch me!
But Mae turned her face from him slightly; the moon stole softly behind the flimsiest little cloud that any one could have seen through, and he paused, silly fellow. These slight withdrawals, that should have urged him on, deceived him. He stopped, and then he remembered Mae's past doings, her recklessness, her waywardness.
Mae felt herself gradually yielding to the spell of this man's soft power. She had grown strangely quiet and passive, and she folded her hands and looked off seawards in a not unhappy way. She seemed to be some one else in a strange dream. "Are you glad I came?" asked Bero, as he jumped into the boat and sat down opposite her. Mae did not reply. She had almost lost the power of speech.
I was only speculating on the different sights we should see in the same places. Confess, now, Albert. Won't your eyes be forever hunting out old musty, dusty volumes? Will not books be your first pleasures in the sight-seeing line?" "O, no, pictures," cried Edith. "That is as you say," Mae demurely agreed. "Pictures and books for you two at any rate." "And churches."
On her knees beside the piano, in quite the attitude he had flung her, leaning forward on one palm and amid the lacy whirl of her train, Mae Munroe listened to his retreating steps; heard the slam of a lower door.
New York lost a great baseball fan when Hugo Percy de Wynter Framlinghame, sixth Earl of Carricksteed, married Mae Elinor, only daughter of Mr and Mrs J. Wilmot Birdsey of East Seventy-Third Street; for scarcely had that internationally important event taken place when Mrs Birdsey, announcing that for the future the home would be in England as near as possible to dear Mae and dear Hugo, scooped J. Wilmot out of his comfortable morris chair as if he had been a clam, corked him up in a swift taxicab, and decanted him into a Deck B stateroom on the Olympic.
And saucy Mae began to feel in that sort of purring mood women come to when they drop the bristling, ready-for-fight air with which they start on an acquaintance. Perhaps, if the steamer had been a sailing-vessel, there would have been no story to tell about Mae Madden, for a long line of evenings, and girls singing songs, and hurricane decks by moonlight, are dangerous things.
The lesse play the better. They that speirs meikle will get wot of part. There is meikle between word and deed. There are mae wayes to the wood nor ane. The blind Horse is hardiest. The mae the merrier, the fewer the better cheer. They are good willy of their Horse that hes none. Three may keep counsel if twa be away. They put at the Cairt, that is ay gangan. Twa wits is better nor ane.
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