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Updated: April 30, 2025
His silences had not proceeded from the unplumbed depths of his knowledge. He merely had nothing to say. She learned, too, that the ten thousand dollars, soon dispelled, had been made for him by an energetic and shrewd business partner with whom he had quarrelled and from whom he had separated a few months before. There never was another lump sum of ten thousand of Hermie Slocum's earning. Well.
"Well, Sam, you're my brother-in-law married to my own sister and living under the same roof with me am I a habitual lady-fusser, or do they call me Hermie the Hermit at home?" "Never knew him to talk ten straight words to a skirt before, girls," said Mr. Kahn through a yawn; "and if you don't believe it, go out and ask Louis Slupsky, who used to play chinies with him."
A whipper-snapper, according to Horace Winter. Not a solid business man like Hermie Slocum. Hannah did not look upon herself as a human sacrifice. She was genuinely fond of Hermie.
"I said I didn't know what he'd bought it for, if 'twa'n't for that," she amended. "Don't you build on anything I said. Don't you do it, Hermie." Her son stood there frowning in perplexity, his hands deep in his pockets, and his feet apart. "But you said so yourself, mother," he persisted.
She had taken a cover from the stove, and was obviously reflecting on the next step in her domestic progress. "I guess you better bring me in a handful o' that fine kindlin', Hermie," she remarked, in her wonted tone of brisk suggestion, "so 's 't I can brash up the fire. I sha'n't have dinner on the stroke not 'fore half-past one."
Hermie Slocum, but remained, somehow, Hannah Winter in spite of law and clergy, though with no such intent on her part. She had never even heard of Lucy Stone. It wasn't merely that her Chicago girlhood friends still spoke of her as Hannah Winter. Hannah Winter suited her belonged to her and was characteristic. Mrs. Hermie Slocum sort of melted and ran down off her.
She had married the solid Hermie, and he had turned out to be quicksand. She had not married the whipper-snapper Clint, and now he was one of the rich city's rich men. Had she married him against her parents' wishes would Clint Darrow now be complaining of her extravagance, perhaps, to some woman he had known in his youth? She laughed a little, to herself, there in the dark.
She rose from her chair and began putting up the table-leaf and setting out the necessary dishes for a batch of cake. "Your father wanted you should take an axe and go down where he is in the long lot," she remarked. "And I wouldn't open your head to him about what we've been sayin', Hermie. You talk it over with mother. That's the best way." "Why, course I sha'n't speak of it till I have to."
"Then father came and asked me to send for you, and mother cried, and so did he. And, oh, Hermie, he's so sweet and kind! Don't make fun of him, will you? It's splendid to have him give in, and everybody feels glad that the district will be all friendly again." Herman did not gibe again. His voice was gentle. The pathos in the scene appealed to him. "So the old man sent for me himself, did he?"
Farquhar, your escort would be enough for us, and the fact that Amy is your sister would give a sort of double security to your protection." "Oh, dear Miss Leare " began Amy. "Hermie, Amy Hermione, which is English and American for Tasso's Erminia. Do you like my name, Mr. Farquhar? We have strange names in America, English people are pleased to say.
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