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Updated: May 12, 2025
Macey began to have a pessimistic notion that perhaps some one had found the scarf but had been too "thrifty" to turn in such a precious article for so small a reward. "I guess it may as well be given up," sighed Mr. Macey, after two in the morning. "I'm going home, anyway." The readers of "The Blade" that crisp October morning knew of Mrs. Macey's loss.
It's your inside as isn't right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk." This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop's insult was felt by everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's epigram. "I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool any longer.
There was no reason, then, why the rector's dancing should not be received as part of the fitness of things quite as much as the Squire's, or why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey's official respect should restrain him from subjecting the parson's performance to that criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men.
And so when a newspaper came to her in which she recognized with her keen insight Lawrence Macey's face under Graeme Mackenzie's name, and a story of embezzlement of trust company and other funds from the Omaha Central Western Trust of half a million, she had not been wholly surprised. Instead, she felt almost a sense of elation. The man was neither better nor worse than herself.
For an instant Maggie's dark brown eyes danced with mischief as she thought how improbable it was that the lofty Mrs. Thornton would seek to renew her acquaintance with one in Miss Macey's humble position, but the next moment they filled with tears, and she said, "Oh, aunt, must I stay from school again? It is the third time within a week. I never shall know anything!"
He would have said the same thing if she had been a real detective, had walked up behind him suddenly in the subway crush, had tapped his shoulder, and whispered, "You're wanted." "We are dealing with facts, not suppositions," she replied evasively. Momentarily, a strange look passed over Macey's face. What was she driving at blackmail?
Macey, who had been set in his arm-chair outside his own door, would expect some special notice as they passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. "Mr. Macey's looking for a word from us," said Dolly; "he'll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing and him so racked with rheumatiz." So they turned aside to shake hands with the old man.
Genevieve was tall and blonde, a destroyer of masculine peace of mind. She said 'harf' and 'rahther', and might easily have been taken for an English duchess instead of a cloak-model at Macey's. You would have said, in short, that, in the matter of personable young men, Genevieve would have swept the board. Yet, here was this one deliberately selecting her, Katie, for his companion.
Macey's audience had heard this story many times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favourite tune, and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the listeners might give their whole minds to the expected words. But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question. "Why, old Mr.
A footstep on the floor the first which has fallen there that afternoon and Maggie looks up to see before her a tall, fine-looking man, who, the moment his eye fell upon her, checked the whistle, intended for his dog, which was trembling on his lip, and lifting his hat deferentially, he asked if "this were Miss Macey's store?"
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