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Updated: June 4, 2025
"Are the Union troops in charge?" he asked. "Yes, sir. They got some of the fire out, I heard tell. But that's not the worst now a body can't set her foot in the street, it's so full of drunken roaring trash, black and white. It's good Mr. Roselle and Mr. McCall and Mr. John are here," she declared again; "they could just finish off anybody that offered to turn a bad hand."
"Miss Rosemary," she begged, "take something, my heart." Rosemary Roselle answered with a slow shudder; she slipped forward, with her face buried in her arms on the table. Elim regarded her with profound mingled emotions. In the fantastic past, when he had created her from the studied essays, he had thought of her censoriously as gay. Perhaps she danced!
Elim Meikeljohn raised the muzzle lying on the cloth, and the negro disappeared. Rosemary Roselle did not move; her level gaze saw, apparently, nothing of her surroundings; her hands were still clenched on the board. She was young, certainly not twenty, but her oval countenance was capable of a mature severity not to be ignored.
Roselle he ain't dead," the woman responded stoutly; "he's just had to keep low trash from stealing all his tobacco." "He could easily be found," Elim put in; "I could have an orderly detailed, word brought you in no time." The girl paid not the slightest heed to his proposal. From the street came a hoarse drunken shouting, a small inflamed rabble streamed by.
Roselle Dates was of that talented community of stupid women who understand and manipulate life through their super-instinct of sex merely; who know how to take all and give nothing; suckers of life and never feeders. She looked at him and sighed and smiled, and shook her head, and touching his hand, whispered: "But that's impossible. It isn't often a woman makes a friend like you.
Elim once more took himself firmly in hand; he folded the paper and sharply indorsed it with a C minus. Afterward he felt decidedly uncomfortable. He wondered if Rosemary Roselle would be made unhappy by the low marking? Probably she wouldn't care; probably all that occupied her mind were dress and company. Possibly she danced light, godless.
His way was not so uphill as he had expected; within a week he was touching big commission, bigger than he had dreamed of, with the prospects of plenty to follow. And driving his electric-blue, silver-fitted Runaway two-seater about New York, or over to Brooklyn, he placed Roselle in her inevitable fur coat and slouched down purple velvet hat, as a splendid business asset, beside him.
He tried the door, but it was solidly barred. Then a second fact, a memory, joined the bare location in his brain. It was a name Rose Rosemary Roselle. He beat with an emaciated fist on the paneling and called, "Roselle! Roselle!" There was a faint answering stir within; he heard the rattle of a chain; the door swung back upon an apparently empty and cavernous cool hall.
There was a cruel case a little while ago: one of these "damaged darlings" of the stage did lose her jewels which had cost about as much as that admirable actress Amy Roselle earned in her honourable career with a tragic ending but felt bound to keep silent about the loss, since to have mentioned it would have seemed like "out-of-date" advertising. "View jew," she called it.
You never helped nor shared." ... "A year ago you left me, glad to go, and I thought my heart would break." ... "But I don't want you." ... "If she knew," he thought restlessly, with Roselle in his mind, "it'd be different. I'd understand what's piqued her. But, as far as she knows, she's been no worse off than other men's wives."
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