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Updated: June 10, 2025
The article was put in type and double leaded. When so prepared, suspicions were aroused, and the financial editor, Mr. Norvell, made very important corrections, taking care to omit sentences and paragraphs that contained explicit statements as to the purposes of the President.
Miss Norvell had proven frankly intimate, delightfully cordial, yet overshadowing it all there remained unquestionably a certain constraint about both words and actions which continued to perplex and tantalize. She had something in her past life to conceal; she did not even pretend to deceive him in this regard, but rather held him off with deliberate coolness.
There was a mystery here unsolved; in some way he failed to understand her, to appreciate her motives. In the brief pause Beth Norvell came back to partial self-control, to a realization of what this man must think of her. With a gesture almost pleading she softly touched his sleeve. "Mr. Winston, I truly wish you to believe me, to believe in me," she began, her low voice vibrating with emotion.
There Miss Norvell hesitated her anxious eyes searching the mixed crowd of dancers now for the first time fully revealed. Even as she gazed upon the riot, shocked into silence at the inexpressible profligacy displayed, and ashamed of her presence in the midst of it, a merry peal of laughter burst through the parted lips of the Mexican dancer.
"Ah, de Americana!" she exclaimed, her eyes yet blazing from excitement, poising herself directly in front of her silent watcher. "Señorita, it ees not de same as yours dey like you, si; but dey lofe Mercedes." Miss Norvell smiled gently, her gaze on the other's flushed, childish face, and extended her hand.
It represented a most thrilling stage picture, while underneath, and in type scarcely a shade less pronounced than that devoted to the eminent comedian T. Macready Lane, appeared the announcement of the great emotional actress, Miss Beth Norvell, together with several quite flattering Western press notices.
Frank or distant, filled with unrestrained gayety or dignified by womanly reserve, smiling or grave, the changeable vagaries of Miss Norvell were utterly beyond his guessing, while back of all these outward manifestations of tantalizing personality, there continually lurked a depth of hidden womanhood, which as constantly baffled his efforts at fathoming.
"No," smilingly, "I have advanced beyond that stage of development, although the mystery of some womanly natures may always remain beyond me. But can I ask you a somewhat personal question, also?" "Most assuredly, yet I expressly reserve the privilege of refusing a direct reply." "Is Beth Norvell your real, or merely your stage name?" "Why do you ask?
The troupe in its wandering arrived at Bolton Junction early on a Saturday afternoon, and Winston, lingering a moment in the hotel office, overheard Miss Norvell ask the manager if they would probably spend Sunday there; and later question the hotel clerk regarding any Episcopalian services in the town.
Swaying on the saddleless back of the pony, her anxious gaze on the dimly revealed, slender figure trudging sturdily in front, Beth Norvell began to dread the necessity of again having to meet Winston under such conditions. What would he naturally think?
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