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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Oh, that's good," Martie answered absently, sitting down to play "The Two Grenadiers" with great spirit. "There's some one now, Lyd!" she added in a half panic, as the doorbell rang. Lydia, her colour rising suddenly, went to the door, raising her hand above as she passed under the gaslight to turn the lights to their full brilliancy.
"And then you'll know what you're fighting about. That will take some months." Lydia sighed with relief. And again Kent laughed. "Oh, Lyd! You haven't any idea how funny you are! Come to, old lady! This is the twentieth century! And twentieth century business ethics don't belong to town meeting days. The best fellow gets the boodle!"
They're getting the house all fitted with modern conveniences. Dave's going to make a model stock farm." "Bought with money earned by the Last Chance!" said Lydia. "You can't be so darned squeamish about where a man gets his money these days, Lyd. Of course, there was no excuse for the Last Chance. But Dave's done what he could about it." Lydia made no reply and Kent looked at her quizzically.
"And so," Lydia's voice trembled, but she went on bravely, "I'm trying to understand trying to see how I can make something good come out of his poor lost life. Somehow I feel as if that were my job. And and the idea helps me. Oh, my dear John Levine!" Billy cleared his throat. "Let's see that passage, Lyd."
"Tell Lyd who we met, Sally!" she called back, as she ran downstairs. She dashed through the dining room, noting with gratitude that dear old Lyd had set the table in spite of her disapproval. Beyond the big, gloomy room was an enormous pantry, with a heavy swinging door opening into a large kitchen. In this kitchen, in the dim light from one gas jet, and in the steam from sink and stove, Mrs.
All he observed were the dusty gold of her curly head, the clear blue of her eyes and the fine set of her head on her thin little shoulders. "You always look just right to me, Lyd," he said. "Listen, Lydia. I'm not going to be a farmer, I'm " "Not be a farmer!" cried Lydia. "After all you've said about it!" "No! I'm going in for two years' law, then I'm going into politics.
"Well, then, I'll give it to Mother and you borrow it from her." "Of course, I won't," replied Lydia. "Besides, I've got enough money I earned myself!" "You have! Then what's all the worry about? How'd you earn it, Lyd? I thought your father " Lydia dug the little pocketbook from under the sofa pillow and spread the money proudly on her shawl. "There it is and it's the root of all my troubles."
Miss Lydia Chipley, vice-president of the Busy Bee Sewing and Civic Club, cool, starchy and unhatted, clicked past on slim, trim heels, all radiated by the reflection from a pink parasol, gay embroidery bag dangling. "Hello, Lyd!" "Hello, Pen!" "What's your hurry?" "It's my middle name." "Why hurry, when the future is always waiting?"
Don't the fern and the needles smell fine? Lyd, what're you going to do after you finish High School?" "Go on to the University. Aren't you?" "Dad wants me to, but I guess I'll go to work. Why waste four years learning a lot of stuff that'll never earn me a cent?" "But you could take engineering, or law." "All lawyers are crooks and I've no head for figures.
She could imagine certain things, chiefly what men and women would like, in order to make them comfortable, but she had no appetite for the incredible. "Do you suppose Esther would have stolen her aunt's diamonds? Or was it pearls?" "Yes, I do," said Lydia stoutly. "It's just like her." "She might do other things, different kinds of things that are just as bad. But stealing, Lyd! Why, think!
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