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After one of Jessie Darcey's concerts the glowing press notices, and the admiring comments that floated about Bowers's studio, caused Thea bitter unhappiness. It was not the torment of personal jealousy. She had never thought of herself as even a possible rival of Miss Darcey. She was a poor music student, and Jessie Darcey was a popular and petted professional. Mrs.
It would hurt you more than most people. It's all wrong." "Something's wrong," Thea called back as she clattered down the stairs in her high heels. DURING that winter Thea lived in so many places that sometimes at night when she left Bowers's studio and emerged into the street she had to stop and think for a moment to remember where she was living now and what was the best way to get there.
Bowers's resources were a life-long experience and technical skill; he too had noted the topographical indications of the poem, and his knowledge of the sylva of Upper California pointed as unerringly as Mr. Hamlin's luck to the cryptogamous haunts of the Summit.
How glad we were. We drank champagne to honour the sun, people made poetry concerning it, some of which Birdie Bowers's lines found their way eventually into the "South Polar Times." The animals went half dotty over it, frisking, kicking, and breaking away even from their leaders; they seemed to understand so well, these little ponies, that the worst part of the winter was gone poor ponies!
And so the afternoon passed as had hundreds like it in Bowers's life until he sat down finally on a rock to watch the rays of the setting sun paint the clouds in ever-changing colors and lose himself in reflections, studying the gorgeous sea surrounding him.
With an imprecation that was not flattering to either herder, Bowers wrapped the lines around the brake and leaped over the wheel to head them if it were possible. But they seemed possessed by all the imps of Satan, as they came on bleating, hurdling boulders, letting out another link of speed at Bowers's frantic shoutings.
Under the least glow of excitement, as at Mrs. Nathanmeyer's, he had seen the apprehensive, frowning drudge of Bowers's studio flash into a resourceful and consciously beautiful woman. His interest in Thea was serious, almost from the first, and so sincere that he felt no distrust of himself.
Andersen, because the long ride from North Chicago to Bowers's studio on Michigan Avenue took too much time an hour in the morning, and at night, when the cars were crowded, an hour and a half. For the first month she had clung to her old room, but the bad air in the cars, at the end of a long day's work, fatigued her greatly and was bad for her voice. Since she left Mrs.
For many miles Bowers's craft flew inland, and much valuable information was picked up, besides the data from which any naval draughtsman could construct a very good map of that part of the country. At last Lieutenant Bowers turned back. Suddenly Dave exclaimed, "Hullo! There are two men coming out of the adobe house ahead." The house in question was out about four miles beyond Trent's station.
And you a church member." "Who? Who?" "Mrs. W W " It was impossible to articulate that tongue-worrying name with her lord glaring at her so dreadfully. The man blenched. "Not old Weatherwax!" "Y-yes." Bowers's jaw hung flaccid. This phenomenon continuing, Mrs. Bowers took alarm. "You've not gone and had a stroke, have you?" she wavered timidly, feeling for his pulse.
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