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Speaks to the point or keeps still." The colonel's papers failed to hold him somehow. He rose and paced the room with his short, stiff-kneed tread. He stopped and stared into the fire; his face began to get red. "So! Moya's clothes are not good enough. Going to set the people to work, is she? Wants an outfit worthy of her son. And who's to pay for it, by gad?
Moved by Moya's romancing stories of travel, adventure, and study, Murillo resolved to see better pictures than were to be found at Seville, and, if possible, to visit Italy.
A number of men from Moya's brigade who went down to the meadow decided to attack the enemy's trenches the first chance they got. The bullets whizzed about us, the battle raged on all sides. For a time they stopped firing, so we thought they were being attacked from behind. We stormed their trenches look, partner, look at that meadow! It's thick with corpses! Their machine guns did that for us.
"May I kiss you good-night, Paul's mother?" "You may kiss me because I am Paul's mother, not because I do not sleep." Moya's lips touched a cheek as white and almost as cold as the frosted window-panes through which the moon was glimmering. She thought of the icy roses on her wedding dress. Downstairs her father was smoking his bedtime cigar. Mrs.
Emerson's old farmhouse was to be turned into a summer home for weary mothers and ailing babies. Helen and Margaret, after consulting with their mothers and Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Emerson, had decided that a cot or single bed and two cribs ought to go in each bedroom except Moya's, where one crib would be enough.
"'Haughty solitudes'!" Christine derided. Mrs. Bogardus sighed with impatience, and Moya's face became set. "Well, here he quotes again," she haughtily resumed. "Anybody who is tired of this can be excused. Emerson won't mind, and I'm sure Paul won't!" She looked a mute apology to Paul's mother, who smiled and said, "Go on, dear.
Moya's happy audacity returned. "Now, how long are you going to sit and think about that?" "Do I sit and think about things?" His reluctant, boyish smile, which all women loved, captured his features for a moment. "It is very rude of me." "Suppose I should ask you what you are thinking about?" "Ah! I am afraid you would say 'morbid' again." "Try me!
Why shouldn't I? He does what I like a man to do. I don't enjoy people who have wills and purposes. It may be very horrid of me, but I wouldn't be in Moya's place for worlds." "You poor child! You poor, unhappy child!" "Why am I unhappy? Has Paul added so much to our income since he left college?" "Paul does not make money; neither does he selfishly waste it.
She was more openhanded than heretofore, but all was done with that ennuyed air which she ever wore as of an older child who has outgrown the game. It was in Moya and Moya's prospective maternity that her pride reinstated itself. Her own history and generation she trod underfoot. Mistakes, humiliations, whichever way she turned.
It would come true if I said it, and then I should be punished enough." Moya's eyes narrowed reflectively. "How constantly you are thinking of this! I think of it only when I am with you. As if a woman like your mother, who has done one thing, should be all that thing, and nothing more to us, her children!"
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