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Updated: May 26, 2025
Clem's done what he could, an' I'll be real glad to help him out.... Oh, I asked 'em to come an' set with us at the service S'norta too. I allowed we could manage to spare 'em the room." She dreamed again, launched on a sea of glory; then roused to her final triumph: "But that's only part, Luke. The best's comin'. Jim Beckonridge wants you to go down an' see him.
Indeed, there were times when Luke wondered whether she had not died in her chair. One had that feeling about S'norta, so motionless was she, so uncompromising of glance.
A bold man stopping in at Uncle Clem's market, as Luke knew, had once tried to pronounce and expound the cognomen in a very different fashion; but he had been hustled unceremoniously from the place, and S'norta remained in undisturbed possession of her honors. Now Luke was recalled from his contemplation by his uncle's voice again.
She was very prosperous-looking, as became the heiress to the Cheesman meat business a fat little girl of twelve, dressed with a profusion of ruffles, glass pearls, gilt buckles, and thick tawny curls that might have come straight from the sausage hook in her papa's shop. S'norta had been consecrated early in life to the unusual. Even her name was not ordinary.
When crops and politics failed and the joke at poor Tom Tom always giggled inordinately at it, too had come off, there was sure to be the one about himself and the lame duck next. To divert himself of bored expectation, Luke turned to stare at his cousin, S'norta. S'norta, sitting quietly in a chair across the room, was seldom known to be emotional.
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