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Updated: May 6, 2025
"You bet there are! I'm one of 'em, too! What that song's done to me and to other innocent bystanders in the last couple weeks " She sighed hugely, drank more of the fortified brew nicely from the cup this time and fashioned a cigarette from materials at her hand. In the flame of a lighted match Mrs. Pettengill's eyes sparkled with a kind of savage retrospection. She shrugged it off impatiently.
It was Ma Pettengill's talk, and I put it here for what it may be worth, hoping I may close-knit and harmonize its themes, so diverse as that of the wardrobe trunk, the age of the earth, what every woman thinks she knows, and the Upper Silurian trilobites. It might be well to start with the concrete, and baby's picture seems to be an acceptable springboard from which to dive into the recital.
"You say they were persuaded into this marriage. Well, who persuaded them? Isn't there something interesting about that?" It had, indeed, been a shrewd stroke. Ma Pettengill's eyes lighted. "Say, didn't I ever tell you about Mrs. Julia Wood Atkins, the well-known lady reformer?" "You did not. We have eight miles yet." "Oh, very well!"
His beauty flaunted to famished hearts, what avail to protest weakly that they should put away his image or even to hint, as now and again he was stern enough to do, that their frankness bordered on the unmaidenly? I called Ma Pettengill's attention to this engaging modesty.
Swiftly departing pessimists accord no praise or attention to this ill-timed sketch; least of all Lew Wee, who it is meant to insult. His face retains the sad impassivity of a granite cliff as yet beyond the dawn. Now I am out by the saddle rack under the poplars, where two horses are tied. Ma Pettengill's long-barrelled roan is saddled.
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