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Updated: May 7, 2025
There entered then, in a violet-scented little whirl, Miss Gina Berg, rosy with the sting of a winter's night, and, as usual, swathed in the high-napped furs. "Gina!" She was for greeting every one, a wafted kiss to Mrs. Kantor, and then, arms wide, a great bunch of violets in one outstretched hand, her glance straight, sure, and sparkling for Leon Kantor. "Surprise everybody surprise!"
But I've a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. In the silence that followed, a sob burst out stifled from Esther Kantor, this time her mother holding her in arms that were strong. "That, Leon, is the most beautiful of all your compositions. What does it mean, son, that word, 'rondy-voo'?"
With a spring, his son was at the door, unlocking and flinging it back. "Come in, pa." The years had weighed heavily upon Abrahm Kantor in avoirdupois only. He was himself plus eighteen years, fifty pounds, and a new sleek pomposity that was absolutely oleaginous.
Haven't I learned it to you often enough a slummer must pay for her nosiness?" There entered then, on poor shuffling feet, Mannie Kantor so marred in the mysterious and ceramic process of life that the brain and the soul had stayed back sooner than inhabit him.
There was a realm into which he went alone, leaving her as detached as the merest ticket purchaser at the box-office. At seventeen Leon Kantor had played before the crowned heads of Europe, the aching heads of American capital, and even the shaved head of a South Sea prince.
In them the future prominent scientists, scholars, and litterateurs were reared, and there the foundations were laid for the activities of Goldfaden, Gurland, Harkavy, Kantor, Landau, Levanda, Mandelkern, Paperna, Pumpyansky, Rosenberg, Steinberg, and others. Their fate was that of Mendelssohn's Bible translation. The end became a means, the means, an end.
This bell was ringing now, jingling in upon the slumber of a still newer Kantor, snuggling peacefully enough within the ammoniac depths of a cradle recently evacuated by Leon, heretofore impinged upon you. On her knees before an oven that billowed forth hotly into her face, Mrs.
At the door, Miss Kantor met her brother, her eyes as sweetly moist as her kiss. "Leon, darling, you surpassed even yourself!" "Quit crowding, children! Let him sit down. Here, Leon, let mamma give you a fresh collar. Look how the child's perspired! Pull down that window, Boris. Rudolph, don't let no one in. I give you my word if to-night wasn't as near as I ever came to seeing a house go crazy.
"Bravo bravo! Give us the 'Humoresque' Chopin nocturne polonaise 'Humoresque'! Bravo bravo!" And even as they stood, hatted and coated, importuning and pressing in upon him, and with a wisp of a smile to the fourth left box, Leon Kantor played them the "Humoresque" of Dvorak, skedaddling, plucking, quirking that laugh on life with a tear behind it.
In the silence that followed, Isadore Kantor, a poppiness of stare and a violent redness set in, suddenly turned to his five-year-old son, sticky with lollypop, and came down soundly and with smack against the infantile, the slightly outstanding, and unsuspecting ear. "Momser!" he cried. "Chammer! Lump! Ganef! You hear that? Two thousand! Two thousand!
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