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The veil of a pause hung between them, Miss Neugass unfolding her legs and letting them hang over the side of the bed, as if she would flee the moment. "Why, I'm no critic, Miss Parlow. All I inherit is some of my father's natural musical instinct." "You're evading me, like Ballman does! Tell me! You may save me as you saved yourself. Am I chasing a phantom?" "I swear to you I don't know.
Coming!" cried Miss Neugass, starting up instantly, her voice lifted and absolutely without tremor. That night Lilly dreamed the whole of her marriage. Her father with his face distorted by lather before his shaving mirror. The Leffingwell Rock Church. Little Evelyn Kemble placing the white-satin cushion. Herself and Albert finally locking the door of their new little home that wedding night.
"Prejudices against us, like some. My husband has one of the finest cantor voices of any temple in the city." "No, no, Mrs. Neugass. I just love Jewish people. Some of the nicest folks we knew in St. Lo I ever knew have been Jews," cried Lilly, with the colossal, the unconscious patronage of race consciousness. It left no welt, however, across the sensibilities of Mrs. Neugass.
Neugass, pitched high in the key of termagency; the faint, expostulatory voice of Alma Neugass; and finally one throat-torn sob that grated like a buzz saw against the night and the banging, reverberating slam of a door. Barefooted, trembling in the chill, Lilly peered out into the hallway, the grotesque procession returning down its length. Mr.
She buried her face suddenly into her hands. Then Mrs. Neugass rose, edging around the back of her chair as if to get clear of even propinquity. "I'm right?" she cried, hoarsely and rather coarsely. "I'm right, then? I took into my home a bad girl?" "No! No! No!
A recurring and dragging sense of lassitude was over her these mornings, so that it was all she could do to drag herself through two hours of practice in the parlor, scrupulously given over by Mrs. Neugass, who moved constantly and audibly about the kitchen.
The mirror-pasted handkerchief. The gas-jet-brewed egg. The hand-fluted ruching. Once, in her absence, Mrs. Neugass had pressed out her dark-brown-cloth coat suit, wrinkled from weeks in her suitcase, and which she had left hanging before the open window. The print of these kindly people was like an indelible rubber stamp into the premises. Mr.
At Lilly's entrance, Isaac Neugass came shuffling around the ground-glass prescription partition, his hands at their perpetual dry washing of each other. There was something of a dressed-up wishbone about him, in the way his clothing scarcely suggested the thin body within them. They had scarcely a point of contact, even with his angles. He was a mere inner tubing to what he wore.
Neugass had already presented her with a jar of Millie face cream and a preparation for cleaning kid gloves.
The night bell that connected from the drug store was gouging the silence with a long-sustained grilling. Soft-soled feet were already padding down the hallway past her door, a bolt withdrawn, then voices. The grunty tones of Mr. Neugass and a woman's fast soprano that rose and rent the silence like the tear of silk. More feet down the hallway; sobs that were filled with coughing; Mrs.
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