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Updated: May 2, 2025
And she was more than ever there after April of nineteen-seven, when the little son was born. The little son that they called Stanley Fulleymore. When he came more and more of Ranny's savings had to go. He didn't care. For he had gone again through deep anguish, again believing that Violet would die, that she couldn't possibly get over it. And she had got over it; beautifully, the doctor said.
"But you got plenty other money to invest in the stock market without you would sell the house, Uncle Mosha," he said. "Have I?" Uncle Mosha rejoined. "That's news to me, Aaron. You see in nineteen-seven was a big panic and some stocks is better as others. Them which ain't, Aaron, they went and gone so low, Aaron, they ain't never come back again and perhaps never will.
She certainly could not afford it herself and keep Ballinger House open, even for brief summer visits; as she might if her home were in New York. Of course Mortimer might make his million, but then again he might not. Certainly there were no present signs of it and she had never seen him so depressed, not even during the panic of nineteen-seven.
No doubt they had thought he was able to stand on his own feet after a while, but he had often looked depressed during the panic of nineteen-seven and the long period of business drought that had followed. Still, he had managed to hold his own, and his constitutional optimism was unshaken. He knew that when times changed he would soon be a rich man, and Alexina shared his faith.
But they had to pretend that Baby remembered, too. He hadn't really got what you would call a memory. "Ranny! Fancy you remembering that I had cold feet!" That night he went home with her to Johnson's side door, carrying the sachet and the hot-water bag and the things his mother had given her. Thus nineteen-seven, that dreadful year, rolled over into nineteen-eight.
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