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Updated: June 2, 2025
Lancelot's verse struck me as nothing more alarming than growing-pains; but it was not to learn this that she had summoned me.
Isadora Kantor, blue-shaven, aquiline, and already greying at the temples; his five-year-old son, Leon; a soft little pouter-pigeon of a wife, too, enormous of bust, in glittering ear-drops and a wrist-watch of diamonds half buried in chubby wrist; Miss Esther Kantor, pink and pretty; Rudolph; Boris, not yet done with growing-pains.
"Well, Robinson is a good fellow. Do you know Tom Smith's conscience?" "I have known him from childhood. He was thirteen inches high, and rather sluggish, when he was two years old as nearly all of us are at that age. He is thirty-seven feet high now, and the stateliest figure in America. His legs are still racked with growing-pains, but he has a good time, nevertheless. Never sleeps.
"I am wondering if there would be something to leap up when Helen promised herself to our Hugh," said she. It was the Halflin that brought me word that Betty was not so well, and would I be coming to see her. "What is her complaint?" said I. "It iss the growing-pains, in her old legs, and in the top of her oxters wild, bad, ay, terrible bad."
He told himself that such painful longings and jealous revolts as he was conscious of are among the growing-pains of life, and must be borne, and gradually forgotten. He had his career to think of and his mother and sister, whom he loved. Some day he too would marry and set up house and beget children, framing his life on the simple strenuous lines made necessary by the family misfortunes.
In the intervals of harkening to my growing-pains I was, of course, still a little girl. As a little girl, in many ways immature for my age, I finished my course in the grammar school, and was graduated with honors, four years after my landing in Boston. Wheeler Street recognizes five great events in a girl's life: namely, christening, confirmation, graduation, marriage, and burial.
Then suddenly, because he could escape no other way, rushed straight back for his dressing-room, bursting in upon a flood of family already there: Isadore Kantor, blue-shaved, aquiline, and already graying at the temples; his five-year-old son, Leon; a soft little pouter-pigeon of a wife, too, enormous of bust, in glittering ear-drops and a wrist watch of diamonds half buried in chubby wrist; Miss Esther Kantor, pink and pretty; Rudolph; Boris, not yet done with growing-pains.
If there were anything in this hypothesis, the growing-pains of that late-blooming conscience were soon enough numbed by the hypnotic spell of clattering chips, an ivory ball singing in an ebony race, and croaking croupiers.
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