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Updated: June 12, 2025
His wife made no reply, but, taking a blue-crossed envelope from the maid in her shaking fingers, looked round for a knife. Her gaze encountered Mr. Gribble's outstretched hand. "After you," he said sharply. Mrs. Gribble found the knife, and, hacking tremulously at the envelope, peeped inside it and, with her gaze fastened on the window, fumbled for her pocket.
This was his own version of his first letter: "Omar Gribble, send it to his office, Miss McGoun, yours of twentieth to hand and in reply would say look here, Gribble, I'm awfully afraid if we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the Allen sale, I had Allen up on carpet day before yesterday and got right down to cases and think I can assure you uh, uh, no, change that: all my experience indicates he is all right, means to do business, looked into his financial record which is fine that sentence seems to be a little balled up, Miss McGoun; make a couple sentences out of it if you have to, period, new paragraph.
"Stay in bed to-morrow morning, and I'll come round and overhaul you." Mrs. Gribble hesitated. "You might examine me and think I was all right," she objected; "and at the same time you wouldn't know how I feel." "I know just how you feel," was the reply. "Good-bye." He came round the following morning and, following the dejected Mr.
"I I said it was my money," she stammered. Mr. Gribble rose, and stood for a full minute regarding her. Then, kicking a chair out of his way, he took his hat from its peg in the passage and, with a bang of the street-door that sent a current of fresh, sweet air circulating through the house, strode off to the Grafton Arms.
Gribble sighed, and her husband, after a few further remarks concerning Uncle George, his past and his future, announced his intention of going to the lawyers and seeing whether anything could be done.
His wife made no reply, but, taking a blue-crossed envelope from the maid in her shaking fingers, looked round for a knife. Her gaze encountered Mr. Gribble's outstretched hand. "After you," he said sharply. Mrs. Gribble found the knife, and, hacking tremulously at the envelope, peeped inside it and, with her gaze fastened on the window, fumbled for her pocket.
"Uncle George dead," he said, at last, shaking his head. "Hadn't pleasure acquaintance, but good man. Good man." He shook his head again and gazed mistily at his wife. "He was a teetotaller," she remarked, casually. "He was tee-toiler," repeated Mr. Gribble, regarding her equably. "Good man. Uncle George dead-tee-toller." Mrs. Gribble gathered up her work and began to put it away.
Gribble, clenching her hands together under the table. "When I found I had come in for that money, the first thing I thought was that I should be able to have a decent dress. My old ones are quite worn out, and as for my hat and jacket " "Go on," said her husband, fiercely. "Go on. That's just what I said: trust you with money, and we should be poorer than ever."
Gribble a few days afterwards. Half-choking with wrath and astonishment, he stood over his trembling wife with the first draper's bill he had ever received. "One pound two shillings and threepence three-farthings!" he recited. "It must be a mistake. It must be for somebody else." Mrs. Gribble, with her hand to her heart, tottered to the sofa and lay there with her eyes closed.
"You might lose it," he said, at last. "I sha'n't lose it," said his wife. To avoid further argument, she arose and went slowly upstairs. Through the doorway Mr. Gribble saw her helping herself up by the banisters, her left hand still at her throat. Then he heard her moving slowly about in the bedroom overhead.
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