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Still, Max Bloom, the manager of this company, insists that the fire was set for revenge, and indeed it looks as much like a fire for revenge as the Jones-Green fire does" here he lowered his voice confidentially "for the purpose of collecting insurance. "Then came the fire in the Slawson Building, a new loft-building that had been erected just off Fourth Avenue.
But Martha's word in her little household was not to be disputed with impunity, and Cora slipped away reluctantly, carrying with her a dazzling vision of soft, dark hair, starry blue-gray eyes, wonderful changing expressions, and, in and over all, a smile that was like a key to unlock hearts. "My, but it's good to see you so!" said Mrs. Slawson heartily.
Slawson scrutinized the prints with an earnestness so eager that Claire was fairly touched, until she discovered that here was no aching hunger for knowledge, no ungratified yearning "for to admire and for to see, for to be'old this world so wide," but just what looked like a perfectly feminine curiosity, and nothing more. "Say, ain't it a pity you ain't any real good likeness of you?"
Daggett named the amount of Claire's indebtedness, and Martha Slawson proceeded to count it out in slow, deliberate syllables. She did not, however, surrender the bills at once.
"You see, I can tend her an' sandwich in some work besides," Mrs. Slawson explained cheerfully. "An' Ma's a whizz at settin' by bedsides helpin' patients get up their appetites. Says she, 'Now drink this nice glass o' egg-nog, Francie, me child, she says. 'An' if you'll drink it, I'll take one just like it meself. An' true for you, she does. The goodness o' Ma is astonishin'."
She covered the narrow width of the hall in a couple of strides, and beat her knuckles smartly against the panel of the opposite door. By this time the baluster-railing, all the way up, was festooned with white-clad tenants, bending over, looking down. "Martha," protested Sam Slawson, "you're in your nightgown! You can't go round like that! Everybody's lookin' at you!" "Say, you Mr.
It seems conceited priggish to suppose you'd care to own it, but if you really would care to " Mrs. Slawson closed one great, finely-formed, work-hardened fist over the delicate treasure, with a sort of ecstatic grab of appropriation. "Care to own it! You betcher life!
Of street-lamps gleaming meaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set in a vacant face, and at last at last in blessed contrast an open door, the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight of a plain, wholesome haven rest. Martha Slawson checked her children's vociferous clamor with a word.
"Have this letter carried to this address at once," he commanded Slawson. "Mr. Dillon Slade, 432 Highland Avenue, Rutherford, N.
"But the truth," persisted Claire. "I tell the truth," Mrs. Slawson returned with quiet dignity. "I only don't waste time on trifles." "It is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. An architect planning a house must make every little detail true, else when the house goes up, it won't stand."
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