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Updated: May 8, 2025
Andrews's drawing-room is a lively change for a girl who loves dress and show only less than daily intercourse with famous men and brilliant women. But I am bearing it nobly and have developed tastes I did not know I possessed; expensive tastes, John, which I fear may unfit me for the humble life of a Portchester matron.
This card was stuck into a little tin holder at the head of my bed. Andrews's card was the same, except the name. The Surgeon was followed by a Sergeant, who was Chief of the Dining-Room, and the Clerk, who made a minute of the diet ordered for us, and moved off. Andrews and I immediately became very solicitous to know what species of diet No. 1 was.
It's nearly time to eat. How you have slept." "But I haven't anything to put on," said Andrews, laughing, and waved a bare arm above the bedclothes. "Wait, I'll find something of the old man's. Say, do all Americans have skin so white as that? Look." She put her brown hand, with its grimed and broken nails, on Andrews's arm, that was white with a few silky yellow hairs.
Miss Andrews's parents are rich but respectable, I understand, and she's an only child.
"Both of them." "Was Mrs. Morowitch?" "Both of them," repeated the doctor hastily. It was evident how Andrews's questions were tending, and it was also evident that the doctor did not wish to commit himself or even to be misunderstood. Kennedy had sat silently for some minutes, turning the thing over in his mind.
In one of those brown-stone, palatial houses on Fifth Avenue, which make the name of the street a synonym for almost royal luxury and magnificence, sat Mrs. Andrews's "new governess," a week after her arrival in New York.
"It's kind of artistic, though, ain't it?" said Applebaum, whose cot was next Andrews's, a skinny man with large, frightened eyes and an inordinately red face that looked as if the skin had been peeled off. "Look at the work there is on that ceiling. Must have cost some dough when it was noo." "Wouldn't be bad as a dance hall with a little fixin' up, but a hauspital; hell!"
Kreener glanced across the laboratory at the crouching figure of Tcheriapin, then, resting his hands upon Andrews's shoulders, he pushed him back in the chair and stared into his dull eyes. "Brace yourself, Colquhoun," he said tersely. Turning, he crossed to a small mahogany cabinet at the farther end of the room. Pulling out a glass tray he judicially selected a pair of dental forceps.
Dear Edna, if you love me! Yes, mamma, I am coming." Edna could not resist the pleading of the lovely face pressed close to hers, and with a sigh she took the tiny note and turned away. More than a week had elapsed since Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Powell had written, recommending her for the situation in Mrs. Andrews's famity; and with feverish impatience she awaited the result.
In "American, Sir!" the story of the World War given in this book, one finds Mrs. Andrews's usual qualities of sentiment, dramatic effect, and distinctive style. To readers of "The Perfect Tribute," it is enough to say that in her stories of the recent war Mrs. Andrews writes with the same exalted spirit of American patriotism that she showed in that story of the Civil War.
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