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Updated: September 29, 2025
"Right away my husband gets mad when I say the same thing. 'When we don't like it we should move, he says." "Like moving is so easy, if you got two chairs and a hair mattress to take with you. But I always say, Mrs. Katz, I don't blame Mrs. Kaufman herself for what goes on; there's one good woman if there ever was one!" "They don't come any better or any better looking, my husband always says.
Ach, you you make me ashamed before Mr. Vetsburg you should run down to the people we make our living off of." Miss Kaufman flashed her vivid face toward Mr. Vetsburg, still low there in his chair. She was trembling. "Vetsy knows! He's the only one in this house does know!
She caught up a litter of dainty pink frills in the making, clearing a chair for him. "Sit down, Mr. Vetsburg." They adjusted themselves around the shower of gaslight. Miss Kaufman fumbling in her flowered work-bag, finally curling her foot up under her, her needle flashing and shirring through one of the pink flounces. "Ruby, in such a light you shouldn't strain your eyes."
From that day on she meant something to me, and that something grew and grew in my feelings for her with time and years. The Russian Red Cross had a number of sister "Communities" who were managed by ladies of the Russian society. The one Nelka joined was the Kaufman community under the able management of Baroness Ixkull. Nelka wrote from St.
Kaufman, enveloped in a long-sleeved apron still angular with starch, hung up the telephone receiver in the hall just beneath the staircase and entered her bedroom, sitting down rather heavily beside the open shelf of her desk.
Something inside him seemed to say "That's it," so he went inside. The desk sergeant the same one who had been there the day before looked at him in surprise. "Is there something I can do for you, Captain?" "I . . . I don't know." Thompson rubbed at the fang marks, frustrated that it didn't seem to help, then began scratching at them. "Is Chief Kaufman here?" "No, sir, she's patrolling.
Old engravings of Bartolozzi, from the stiff elegances of Angelica Kaufman and the mythologies of Reynolds, adorned the shelf; and the carpet in the parlor was of veritable English make, older than Lucinda herself, but as bright in its fading and as firm in its usefulness as she.
Kaufman, who wore bombazine, but unspotted and with crisp net frills at the throat, and upon whose soft-looking face the years had written their chirography in invisible ink, would sit suddenly, there in the narrow gloom of her halls, head against the balustrade.
"Will you, Mrs. Kaufman, come or won't you? Will you, I ask you, or won't you?" "I I can't, Mr. "All right, then, I I bust out now. To-day can be as good as to-morrow! Not with my say in a t'ousand years, Mrs. Kaufman, you sign that lease! I ain't a young man any more with fine speeches, Mrs. Kaufman, but not in a t'ousand years you sign that lease." "Mr. Vetsburg, Ruby I "
She arrived as Kaufman was using a damp cloth to gently wipe blood from scratches on Thompson's neck. She felt immediate sympathy for the Marine; reading him told her that he was in pain, as well as under the terrible strain she'd felt in him earlier.
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