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Updated: May 14, 2025
So Pancha's experience was added to the case against Mayer, and breasting the hills, the young men talked it over, Crowder leaping to quick conclusions, impulsive, imagination running riot, Mark more judicial, confining himself to what facts they had, warning against hasty judgments. The talk finally veered to the Alston's and Mark had a question to ask that he had not liked to put to Fong.
He opened his lips to give it freedom. But Charmian spoke quickly, anxiously, and her eyes travelled swiftly from Claude's face to Alston's, and to Crayford's. "Then if we I mean if my husband does what you wish, you will spend thousands over it?" she said, "you will produce it, give it its chance?" Never yet had that question been asked. Never had Crayford said anything definite.
Buck resented it that Lizay should rebuff him and encourage Alston; so he hoped that for this once, at any rate, she would fall behind: he had thought of a capital plan of revenging himself on her. The next moment after her whispered appeal Lizay saw with intense interest Alston's basket brought forward for weighing. She glanced at him.
He saw how his background of wholesale thievery would serve him in the general eye. Not old Alston's. He did not think for a moment Alston would believe him, but it seemed more or less of a grim joke to ask him to. "Don't you know," he said, "I'm an ex-convict? Once a jailbird, always a jailbird. Remember your novels, Choate. You know more about 'em than you do about law anyway."
Then he produced from the capacious pockets of his overcoat a box of delicious sandwiches and a small bottle of white wine. The curtain was still down. They had time for a gay little supper. How Charmian enjoyed it and Alston's optimism! The world changed. She saw everything in another light. She ate, drank, talked, laughed. Mrs.
Had the others known of the visit and its cause they would have thrown up their hands and said, "Just like that girl." Mrs. Kirkham was nobody now, the last person to go to for help in social matters. In the old days in Nevada her husband had been George Alston's paymaster, and she had held her head high and worn diamonds. But that was ages ago.
"The cotton we get now'll weigh heavy," she said: "it's got dew on it." "That's so," Alston assented, "but yer mus'n't talk ter me, Lizay. I's got ter put all my min' ter my wuck: I can't foad ter talk." "I can't nuther," said Lizay. "Wish I didn't pick so much cotton the fus' day: I's got ter keep on trottin' ter two hunderd an' fawty-seven." She selected two rows beside Alston's.
He found himself pitying some of the pickers as light weights were called, wondering if they had fallen behind last year's figures. When his basket was brought forward, it was by Big Sam, who with one hand swung it lightly to the scales; yet Alston's thought was, "How strong Big Sam is!" and never, "How light the basket!" The weight was announced: Alston was almost stunned.
Madame Beattie turned upon it a cursory gaze, and gave a nod that seemed to accept its identity. But Esther did not look at all. She put her hand on the table to sustain herself, and her burning eyes never once left Alston's face. He looked round at her. "Is this it?" he asked. She nodded. "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure," said Esther.
But this was too far away to be seen from Cedar House, and no one there had the heart to approach it. One sad pilgrimage had been made, and that was to the ruins of Philip Alston's house.
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