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"If some of you damned jealous women who are always running around trying to make trouble would let her ALONE" he went on sulkily, "I'd be obliged to you that's all!" Rachael settled her ruffles in a big wing-chair with the innocent expression of a casual caller. She took a book from the reading table, and fluttered a few pages indifferently. "Listen, Clancy," said she placatingly.
He was tottering through the common room, wondering whether he could find a clothing-shop in Aengusmere, when a shrill gurgle from a wing-chair by the rough-brick fireplace halted him. "Oh-h-h-h, Mister Wrenn; Mr. Wrenn!" There sat Mrs. Stettinius, the poet-lady of Olympia's rooms on Great James Street. "Oh-h-h-h, Mr.
From a wing-chair Carl searched the room and the people. There were two paintings a pale night sea and an arching Japanese bridge under slanting rain, both imaginative and well-done. There was a mahogany escritoire, which might have been stiff but was made human by scattered papers on the great blotter and books crammed into the shelves.
And he departed, a cooky in each hand. That night one of the Gatchell boys took Alicia to a dance. She was in blue and white, like an angel, and the Gatchell boy trod on air. But to me came Doctor Richard Geddes, and threw himself into a wing-chair. "Sophronisba Two," he asked, we being alone in the library, "what have I done to offend Alicia?" "Is Alicia offended?"
As she drowsed away in the tropic languor of morphia, he sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand, and for the first time in many weeks her hand abode trustfully in his. He draped himself grotesquely in his toweling bathrobe and a pink and white couch-cover, and sat lumpishly in a wing-chair.
Carter, realizing that her daughter was no longer a child nor a mere social butterfly, but a woman superior, cool, sympathetic, with intuitions much deeper than her own, sank into a heavily flowered wing-chair behind her, and, seeking a small pocket-handkerchief with one hand, placed the other over her eyes and began to cry. "I was so driven, Bevy, I didn't know which way to turn.
His hand was out to her, then both hands, beseechingly, but she did not run to him, as she had at Flathead Lake. She stalked him cautiously, and shook hands much too heartily. She sought cover in the wing-chair and much too cordially she invited: "Tell me all about it." He was watching her. Already his old pursuing determination, his steady dignity, were beginning to frighten her.
He was feeling rather resentful at everything, including Istra, as he finally knocked and heard her "Yes? Come in." There was in her room a wonderful being lolling in a wing-chair, one leg over the chair-arm; a young young man, with broken brown teeth, always seen in his perpetual grin, but a godlike Grecian nose, a high forehead, and bristly yellow hair.
The roadway was gashed with ruts of ice. She looked at the extra cup and plate. She looked at the wing-chair. It was so empty. The tea was cold in the pot. With wearily dipping fingertip she tested it. Yes. Quite cold. She couldn't wait any longer. The cup across from her was icily clean, glisteningly empty. Simply absurd to wait. She poured her own cup of tea. She sat and stared at it.
She busily unfolded the sewing-table set it in the bay-window, patted the tea-cloth to smoothness, moved the tray. "Some time I'll have a mahogany tea-table," she said happily. She had brought in two cups, two plates. For herself, a straight chair, but for the guest the big wing-chair, which she pantingly tugged to the table. She had finished all the preparations she could think of.
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