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Updated: May 6, 2025
She tiptoed, almost ran, poor dear! with the consciousness of some one at her heels, back to the kitchen, where at least was the warm print of the cat's presence; fell to knitting again, clacking her needles for the solace of explainable sound. Identically with the round moment of ten Mr. Lipkind entered, almost running down the hallway. "Hello, ma! Think I got lost?
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.
Lipkind, smiling through her tear and dashing at it with the back of her hand. "For why should I when I got only everything to be thankful for?" "Now you're shouting!" "How you think, Sammy, Clara likes a cheese pie for supper to-night? Last week I could see she didn't care much for the noodle pudding I baked her." Mr.
Lipkind, who was ever so slightly and prematurely bald and still more slightly and prematurely rotund, suffered a rush of color then, his ears suddenly and redly conspicuous. "That's that's what I started to tell you last night, ma. Clara telephoned over to the store in the afternoon she she thought she wouldn't come to supper this Wednesday night, ma."
To Samuel Lipkind, who, in a span of thirty years, had created and carried probably more than his share of this world's responsibilities, there was no more predominant moment in all his day, even to the signing of checks and the six-o'clock making of cash, than that matinal instant, just fifteen minutes before the stroke of seven, when Mrs.
He broke into the kind of smile that lifted his every feature, screw-lines at his eyes coming out, head bared, and his greeting beginning to come even before she was within hearing distance of it. There was in Mr. Lipkind precious little of Lothario, Launcelot, Galahad, or any of that blankety-blank-verse coterie.
As if the moments themselves had been woven by her flying amber needles into a whole cloth of meditation, Mrs. Lipkind, beside a kitchen lamp that flowed in gracious light, knitted the long, quiet hours of her evening into fabric, her face screwed and out of repose and occasionally the lips moving. Age is prone to that.
"I won't" drawing the cord of his robe about his waist, and as if they did not both of them know just how faithfully disregarded would be that daily admonition. Then Mrs. Lipkind flung back the snowy sheets and bed-coverings, baring the striped ticking of the mattress. "Hurry, Sammy! I'm up so long I'm ready for my second cup of coffee." "Two minutes."
Lipkind and her son sat down to a breakfast that was steamingly fit for those only who dwell in the headacheless kingdom of long, sleepful nights and fur-coatless tongues. "A few more fried potatoes with it, Sammy?" "Whoa! You want to feed me up for the fat boys' regiment!" Mrs. Lipkind glanced quickly away, her profile seeming to quiver. "Don't use that word, Sam even in fun it's a knife in me."
"If she can't even stand for her own son-in-law walking into his own kitchen in his own house Oh, you don't find me starting my married life that way at this late date. I haven't held off five years for that." Mr. Lipkind pushed back his but slightly tasted food, lines of strain and a certain whiteness out in his face.
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