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Updated: June 27, 2025
She announced to Miss Angie Miller that he was a "stuck up smart-Aleck," and sooner or later he'd get a piece of her mind that would "take him down a couple of pegs." Miss Miller, while in complete accord with Flora's views, was content to speak of him as "supercilious." Charlie Webster grew more and more thoughtful under the weight of indignity.
He had a rosy face: in spite of former long sea-wear, not blowzed, but delicately tinted; he snuffled when he talked in a way which I could only define as classical; and it was admitted that his nosegay vest and blue coat, as far as tender refinement went, far surpassed anything in the room. "That's Angie Fay Kobbe, my wife, at the organ.
"That's all right," said Charlie. "I'll sneak upstairs with it, Angie." "Well, act as if you are looking out of the window," she said, and when his back was turned she produced the letter from its hiding place inside her blouse. Charlie retired to his room a few minutes later.
"You haven't told them boardin' house tattletales about the Emmie, you go fetch me a card of matches from the kitchen, won't you of what's been found out about that Thomas thing?" "Course I ain't. Didn't Peabody say not to tell a soul till we was sure? S'pose I'd tell Keturah and Angie? Might's well paint it on a sign and be done with it. No, no! I've kept mum and you do the same.
Hatch was lurking anywhere in the shadows, he must have been profoundly impressed by the transformation in Miss Angie Miller as she strode homeward at the side of the tall young New Yorker, her hand on his arm, her head held high, he might also have noticed that she stepped a little higher than usual.
"All I've got to say," grated Charlie, "is that the police ought to be consulted, first of all." "The police!" exclaimed Angie Miller. "The the what?" gasped Furman Hatch, lifting his head suddenly. He was very red in the face. "I'd like to know what the devil the police have to do with it?" Charlie took a look at Angie Miller's face, and then the truth dawned upon him.
It's very quiet: there are few sounds, and those few most familiar: the raucous war-cry of a rooster somewhere on the outskirts of town; an intermittent thudding of hoofs in the inch-deep dust of the roadway; Miles Stetson wringing faint but genuine shrieks of agony from his cornet, in a room behind the Opery House on the next street; periodically a shuffle of feet on the sidewalk below; less frequently the whine of the swinging doors at Schwartz's place; above it all, perhaps, the shrill but not unpleasant accents of Angie Tuthill as she pauses on the threshold downstairs and injects surprising information into the nothing-reluctant ears of Mame Garrison.
Pollock, everything depends on my aunt," said Angie composedly. "She is very old, eighty-three, in fact." "You don't mean to say your aunt objects to your marrying old Tintype," exclaimed Charlie. "Not at all," replied Angie, somewhat tartly. "You see, it's this way," volunteered Mr. Pollock. "Miss Angie is the sole support of a venerable and venerated aunt who lives in Frankfort.
"Well, Angie, it looks as if you'd found your job right here at home, doesn't it? This young lady's just one of hundreds, I suppose. Thousands. You can have the whole house for them, if you want it, Angie, and the grounds, and all the money you need. I guess we've kind of overlooked the girls. Hm, Angie? What d'you say?" But Tessie was not listening. She had scarcely heard.
"So do I," Willa retorted frankly. "They were men, anyway. You are unjust because you are hurt, and I am sorry for you. I wish you could understand, but I am afraid you will not believe me. Mr. Wiley " "Will you kindly leave his name out of this discussion?" demanded Angie. "I am not in the least jealous, I assure you!
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