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Updated: May 3, 2025
Hainer, a heavy man of heavy voice and heavy manner, middle-aged, a small-salaried accountant. "Maybe he's got money," suggested Lambert. "Or maybe he's a dead beat; he looks on the queer," opined young Wickert. "He has a very fine and sensitive face. I think he has been ill."
Never were crops richer than those of '61 and '62, nor prices better. So the barns were full to bursting through the autumn of those years, and the fires were big enough to warm you to your very marrow in winter. Even now, if young Corporal Simpson, or Joe Hainer, or any other of the neighbors' boys come home wounded, it only spices the gossip for the apple-butter-parings or spelling-matches.
"Been promoted to be messenger, ay?" put in Mr. Hainer, chuckling. "When I came downstairs," continued the other with only a venomous glance toward the seat of the scorner, "I thought to myself what's the matter with taking a look at the swells feeding in the big restaurant. You may not know it, people, but Sherry's is the ree-churchiest place in Nuh Yawk to eat dinner. It's got 'em all beat.
The point is I've come back." "Oh, dear! I do hate not to take you in. But there isn't a spot." "Who's got my old room?" "Mr. Hainer." "Hainer? Let's turn him out." "I would in a minute," declared the ungrateful landlady to whom Mr. Hainer had always been a model lodger. "But the law " "Oh, I'll fix Hainer if you'll fix the room." "How?" asked the bewildered Mrs. Brashear. "The room?
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