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"You know what I mean." The lower half of Mr. Lipkind's face seemed to lock, as it were, into a kind of rigidity which shot out his lower jaw. "I'll see Eddie Leonard burning like brimstone before I let him have you!" "Well?" "God! I don't know what to say I don't know what to say!" "That's your trouble, Sam; you're so chicken-hearted you "
Lipkind's kitchen which must lie within the soul of the housewife who achieves it the lace-edged shelves, the scoured armament of dishpan, soup-pot, and what not; the white Swiss window-curtains, so starchy, and the two regimental geraniums on the sill; the roller-towel too snowy for mortal hand to smudge; the white sink, hand-polished; the bland row of blue-and-white china jars spicily inscribed to nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves.
Lipkind's apartment, from the chromos of the dear dead upon its walls to the upholstery of another decade against those walls, was as little of the day as if the sweep of the city were a gale across a mid-Victorian plain and the flow past the windows a broad river ruffled by wind. "You're right, ma; there's not a kitchen in New York I'd trade it for.
Lipkind's store-front and which invariably captioned his four inches of Sunday-news-paper advertisement: SAMMY LIPKIND WANTS YOUR HEAD As near as it is possible for the eye to simulate the heart, there was exactly that sentiment in his glance now as he found out Miss Bloom, she in a purple-felt hat and the black scallops of escaping hair, blacker because the red was out in her cheeks.
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