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Updated: June 29, 2025
On this particular Saturday of ninety-seven, the shopping multitude was already pouring from the Scylla of Simpson, Crawford & Simpson's on Sixth Avenue and its Charybdis of the Big Store past the jungles of Altman's, Ehrich's and O'Neill's to dash feebly upon the buttressed corner of Macy's, and then die away in refluent, diverted waves, lost in the fastnesses of McCreery's and Wanamaker's, far down Broadway.
I was facing Miss Lansing, who had taken her hand from my shoulder. "Are you not ashamed of yourself?" I said; and I remember I thought how my mother would have spoken to them. "Miss Lansing's good nature" I went on slowly, "Miss Macy's kindness Miss Bentley's independence and Miss St. Clair's good breeding!"
It was a triumphant little procession that marched to the spot where the Macy's huge car stood ready. As Marjorie put her foot on the step a girl's voice called out, "Three cheers for Marjorie Dean!" and the car glided off in the midst of a noisy but heartfelt ovation. They were well down the road when Marjorie felt a timid hand upon hers. Marcia Arnold's eyes looked penitently into her own.
"I've got to get out of this," he said aloud and then repeated, "I've got to get out" and he didn't mean only out of Macy's wholesale house. When he left at five-thirty it was pouring rain, but he struck off in the opposite direction from his boarding-house, feeling, in the first cool moisture that oozed soggily through his old suit, an odd exultation and freshness.
"If it is made by somebody else, it leaves your hands clean," the St. Clair answered, with an insolence worthy of maturer years; for Miss Macy's family had grown rich by trade. She was of a slow temper, however, and did not take fire." "My grandfather's hands were clean," she said; "yet he made his own money. Honest hands always are clean."
Carter says 't he thinks he will. He says he ain't got no real important case on hand jus' now, only he says it's a ill wind 's blows no man good 'n' he's lookin' for this heat to lay some one out afore long. "Gran'ma Mullins come up to Mrs. Macy's while I was there, 'n' she's pretty mad. Seems she hurried to Mr.
"The fines are an awful nuisance, that they are," said a bright-faced girl in one of the best-known shops of London a great bazar, much like Macy's. "But then it all depends on the manager. Some of them are real nasty, you know, and if they happen not to like a girl, they stick on fines just to spite her.
I can assure you that our house is a pleasanter place to live in than the one you are in now." With this pointed fling she bowed again in mock courtesy to the silent woman who had offended her and flounced out the door and into the starlit night to where her own electric runabout was standing. "Can you beat that?" was the tribute that fell from Jerry Macy's lips. Mrs.
Perhaps he was married now. Coming out of the Gully Road, she opened the purse again, and the sun struck richly upon the gold within. Mary smiled a little, wanly, but still with a sense of the good, human kinship in life. "I won't ever spend 'em," she said to herself. "I'll keep 'em to bury me." David Macy's house stood on the spur of a breezy upland at the end of a road.
He wanted a world that was like walking through rain, even though he could not see far ahead of him, but fate had put him in the world of Mr. Macy's fetid storerooms and corridors. At first merely the overwhelming need of change took him, then half-plans began to formulate in his imagination. "I'll go East to a big city meet people bigger people people who'll help me. Interesting work somewhere.
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