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Updated: May 6, 2025
Her mother wanted her to go over her last reading-lesson with her, and the child would not do so, pleading a desire to call on Beckie "Stay where you are and open your reader," Dora commanded Lucy obeyed, whimperingly. "Read!" "I want to go to Beckie." "Read, I say." And she slapped her hand "Don't," I remonstrated. "Let the poor child go enjoy herself." But it only spoiled matters
Cohen," he cried, "what a pleasure this is! I congratulate you!" Mr. Cohen withdrew his hand from Abe's cordial grasp. "You congradulate me, hey?" he said, with slow and ironic emphasis. "Mawruss Perlmutter also congradulates me what?" He fixed the unhappy Morris with a terrible glare. "Don't congradulate me," he went on. "Congradulate Ike Feinsilver and Beckie Cohen."
Sadie lived several blocks from the Margolises, but she absolutely never let a day pass without calling on her, if it were only for just time enough to kiss her. She was infatuated with Dora, and Beckie was infatuated with Lucy "They just couldn't live without one another," Max said, after introducing me to Sadie and explaining the situation
"Suppose Lucy and Beckie had not happened to be in the same school," I jested, addressing myself to the two women. "What would you have done then?" "This shows that we have a good God in heaven," Sadie returned, radiantly. "He put the children in the same school so that we might meet." "'A providential match," I observed. "May it last for many, many years," Sadie returned, devoutly "Say, women!"
Perhaps they were the progenitors of the authors of the books. Mr. Thackeray has introduced us to sundry gentlemen and ladies bearing a faint likeness to them; but he also permitted us to behold Lady Beckie Crawley nee Sharpe boxing little Rawdon's ears, and to meet Mrs. Hobson Newcome at one of her delightful "at homes," where Runmun Loll, of East Indian origin, was the lion of the evening.
Dora's great friend was a stout woman with flaxen hair and fishy eyes, named Sadie, or Mrs. Shornik, whose little girl, Beckie, was a classmate of Lucy's, the acquaintance and devoted intimacy of the two mothers having originated in the intimacy of the two school-girls.
What a world this would be if every man were a Harry Esmond, or every woman a Jeannie Deans! But then again, what a world if every woman were a Beckie Sharp and every man a Varney or a Barry Lyndon! Of Varneys and Harry Esmonds there are very few. Human nature, such as it is, does not often produce them. The portraits of such virtues and such vices serve no doubt to emulate and to deter.
"What's the matter?" It was a strange sight which met him inside. Dad, in his gray pajamas, was waving a revolver and making fierce noises. Mother, looking frightened, had a shoe in one hand. Aunt Amy, with her hair in rags, was also well-armed with a big cast-iron frying pan. Beckie was howling upstairs. "David!" Mother cried. "Are you all right? Where have you been? Did he hurt you?"
Vague longing ached in his throat. Life was a struggle, love a torment. He stopped abruptly, and put the violin into its box, fumbling with the catch to hide his emotion and my father broke the tense silence with a prosaic word. "Well, well! Look here, it's time you youngsters were asleep. Beckie, where are you going to put these children?"
She wriggled out of her mother's grasp now, and made for the door, throwing a "back-hand" as she went, without losing a single jackstone. "I hate long lessons," she said. "When I graduate grammar school next year I'm going to work in Jordan-Marsh's big store, and get three dollars a week, and have lots of fun with the girls. I can't write pieces in the paper, anyhow. Beckie! Beckie Hurvich!
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