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Updated: May 25, 2025
Mirabelle said, with a rolling-up of her mental shirt-sleeves: "Well, now let's get after something drastic. I've heard lots of people say you ought to get elected to office; well, show 'em what you can do. Of course, what we've been doing is all right, but it's kind of small potatoes." Mr. Mix looked executive. "Mustn't go too fast, Miss Starkweather. Can't afford to make people nervous."
I'll admit she don't look it, 'specially under the pink-shaded counter light when she's had a henna treatment lately and been careful to spread the make-up artistic. The jet ear danglers helps some, too. Then there are them misbehavin' eyes. Also when it comes to light and frivolous chat Mirabelle is right there with the zippy patter. Oh my, yes!
Mix had so carefully phrased to checkmate Henry, without at the same time seeming to do more than provide conservative Sunday regulation, but in the other articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a wealth of her own precious thoughts, clad in her own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the worst wasn't yet to come it had arrived.
Mix, at fifty-five, wasn't the type of man who could expect to have lovely and plutocratic débutantes thrown at his head. He believed and his belief was cousin to a prayer that Mirabelle was absorbed in reform only because no one was absorbed in Mirabelle.
Mix said nothing: he was wondering how soon he could get to his private caché, and whether he had better put in a supply of young onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans. He hadn't yet discovered whether Mirabelle had a particularly keen scent: but he would take no chances. "Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!" "I may be married," said Mr. Mix, defensively.
"Buggy-riding's a generic term. Don't blush. I was young myself, once." Mr. Mix fought down his anger. "You're very much of a joker, Henry. It seems to run in the family. Your uncle " "Yes, and Aunt Mirabelle, too." "What?" "Oh, yes," said Henry. "Aunt Mirabelle's a joker, too.
It was his own demand note, payable to John Starkweather and endorsed by him to Mirabelle. The word "Cancelled" was written, in Mirabelle's angular hand, across the face of it. As Henry and his wife went down the steps, they exchanged glances and smiled faintly. "First time I've been in that house for seven months," said Henry, half to himself. "It's a bully old shack, too.
As a matter of fact, I've always had Mirabelle sized up as a near-vamp who had worked up the act to boost sales and cinch her job. Anyway, I never knew of her lurin' her victims into anything more desperate than a red-ink table d'hôte dinner or a six-dollar orgie at a cabaret.
Florent was astonished by the calmness of the female market gardeners, with bandanas and bronzed faces, displayed amidst all this garrulous bargaining of the markets. Behind him, on the footway of the Rue Rambuteau, fruit was being sold. Hampers and low baskets covered with canvas or straw stood there in long lines, a strong odour of over-ripe mirabelle plums was wafted hither and thither.
He was strengthened in this conviction by the fact that two fashionable young men in the corner were snickering at him. "Home again," said Mirabelle, with a sigh of relief. "Home again, and time to get to work. And I'm just itching for it." Mr.
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