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Updated: May 14, 2025
"She said it seemed so extraordinary quite providential meeting relatives abroad in this way," momma continued, "and she thought we ought to follow it up." "Are we going to?" I inquired. "My goodness gracious no, love! There are some things my nerves cannot stand the strain of, and one of them is your poppa's Aunt Caroline. The Senator smoothed it over.
"Do you think you can get down with them, momma?" the girl asked, and somehow her mother's heart was lightened by her evasion, not to call it uncandor. It was at least not morbid, it was at least like other girls, and Mrs. Kenton imparted what comfort there was in it to the judge, when he asked where she had left Ellen.
McConnell is Postmaster-General of Chicago." Momma was grateful, too, though she expressed it somewhat more distantly. Momma has a great deal of manner with strangers; it sometimes completely disguises her real feeling toward them. I was also grateful, though I merely bowed, and kicked the Senator under the table.
"You see, between Miss Portheris and me, it's this way," he began recklessly, but with the vision before my eyes of momma on the steps below wanting her tea, I cut him short. "So far as you are concerned, Dicky, I see the way it is," I interposed sympathetically. "The question is " "Exactly. So it is. About Isabel. But I can't find out. It seems to be so difficult with an English girl.
All of the tragedy that the Count, with strained neck, could see or overhear, was a vision of the Countess being pushed by the guard and her escort into that first-class compartment whence so lately the Baron's crimson visage had protruded, and the voice of Ri stridently declaring "Guess you'll recognize your momma this time, Baron!"
If you throw it away you'll be slappin' Providence right in the face. The Lord would never have put this op'tunity in your reach if He hadn't meant you to have it." "What you talking about, momma?" said Kedzie. "My father always used to say: 'Old Man Op'tunity is bald-headed except for one long scalplock in the middle his forehead.
Neither, such was the irony of circumstances, would our immediate union have affected the motion in the slightest degree. But although I presented these considerations to momma many times a day, she adhered so persistently to the idea of promoting a happy reunion that I was obliged to keep a very careful eye on the possibility of surreptitious messages from Liverpool.
"Yes, I wanted him to, but that doesn't make it any easier. It makes it harder. Momma!" "Well, Ellen?" "You know you've got to tell him, first." "Tell him?" Mrs. Kenton repeated, but she knew what Ellen meant. "About Mr. Bittridge. All about it. Every single thing. About his kissing me that night." At the last demand Mrs. Kenton was visibly shaken in her invisible assent to the girl's wish.
She looked complacently up at the hangings of primrose silk that hid the fifteenth century frescoes on the walls. Her cousin hesitated. "I guess it must have cost some." "Yes. The Marchese does not like it. He is so set on his worm-eaten old tapestries and carved chairs, and he wanted momma to refurnish the palace to match, but not she! Louis Quinze, she said, and Louis Quinze it is, more or less.
Simmons shouldn't come to tea, that there were twenty-four hours for all necessary thinking, and that a gallon of nerve tincture, if required, could be at her disposal in ten minutes. "Being Protestants," I added, "I suppose a convent wouldn't be of any use to us what do you think?" Momma thought she could go.
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