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You've accustomed yourself to the highest motives, and now these new notions are not the highest, and you know and feel it. They don't nourish you. They don't make you happy. Where are your old sentiments? What's become of them?" "Ah!" said Richling, "I got them from my wife. And the supply's nearly run out."
Richling moved on, not stopping at the next place, or the next, or the next; for he felt the man's stare all over his back until he turned the corner and found himself in Tchoupitoulas street. Nor did he stop at the first place around the corner. It smelt of deteriorating potatoes and up-river cabbages, and there were open barrels of onions set ornamentally aslant at the entrance.
The new, the cold-blooded, is incomparably better: it never to individual or to community gives where it can sell. Your instincts have applied the rule to yourself; apply it to your fellow-man." "Ah!" said Richling, promptly, "that's another thing. It's not my business to apply it to them." "It is your business to apply it to them. You have no right to do less." "And what will men say of me?
He's got plenty of sense, but he doesn't load any of it on deck. Some men carry their sense on top and their folly down below" Richling smiled broadly through his dejection, and touched his own chest. "Like this big fool here," he said. "Exactly," said Dr. Sevier. "Now you've developed a defect of the memory.
"Who told you that?" asked Richling. "Never mind! Never mind who he was ha, ha, ha!" She checked herself suddenly. "Ah, me! It's a shame for the likes o' me to be behavin' that foolish!" She put on additional dignity. "I will always be the Widow Riley." Then relaxing again into sweetness: "Marridge is a lottery, Mr.
"Hush!" cried Richling, again; "if you try to speak before I finish I'll thrash you right here in the street!" Narcisse folded his arms. Richling flushed and flashed with the mortifying knowledge that his companion's behavior was better than his own. "If you want to borrow more money of me find me a chance to earn it!"
But the Doctor did not so much as smile. Richling finished, and the physician was silent. "Oh, we're getting along," said Richling, stroking the small, weak hand that lay near him on the coverlet. But still the Doctor kept silence. "Of course," said Richling, very quietly, looking at his wife, "we mustn't be surprised at a backset now and then. But we're getting on."
"Ristofalo, a man of your sort can hardly conceive the amount of bluster this country can stand without coming to blows. We Americans are not like you Italians." "No," responded Ristofalo, "not much like." His smile changed peculiarly. "Wasn't for Kate, I go to Italia now." "Kate and the parish prison," said Richling. "Oh!" the old smile returned, "I get out that place any time I want."
It's mine still. I've never tarnished it not even in prison. I will not stain it now by disclosing it. I carry it with me to God's throne." The whisperer ceased, exhausted. The Doctor rested an elbow on a knee and laid his face in his hand. Presently Richling moved, and he raised a look of sad inquiry. "Bury me here in New Orleans, Doctor, will you?" "Why, Richling?"
When Richling went out the next morning the whole city was in an ecstasy of rage and terror. Thousands had gathered what they could in their hands, and were flying by every avenue of escape. Thousands ran hither and thither, not knowing where or how to fly. He saw the wife and son of the silver-haired banker rattling and bouncing away toward one of the railway depots in a butcher's cart.
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