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Updated: June 18, 2025
Latz and I sat and talked." An almost imperceptible nerve was dancing against Mrs. Samstag's right temple. Alma could sense, rather than see, the ridge of pain. "You're all right, mamma?" "Yes," said Mrs. Samstag, and sat down on a divan, its naked greenness relieved by a thrown scarf of black velvet stenciled in gold.
Samstag, with that dreadful dew of her sweat constantly out over her, lay with her twisted lips to the faint perfume of that fan of Alma's flowing hair, her toes curling in and out. Out and in. Toward morning she slept. Actually, sweetly, and deeply, as if she could never have done with deep draughts of it.
"You're all right, mama?" "Yes," said Mrs. Samstag, and plumped rather than sat herself down on a divan, its naked greenness relieved by a thrown scarf of black velvet, stenciled in gold.
It was then that Carrie Samstag, even in her lovely pink night-dress, a crone with pain, and the cables out dreadfully in her neck, began by infinitesimal processes to swing herself gently to the side of the bed, unrelaxed inch by unrelaxed inch, softly and with the cunning born of travail.
She awoke to the brief patch of sunlight that smiled into their apartment for about eight minutes of each forenoon. Alma was at the pretty chore of lifting the trays from a hamper of roses. She placed a shower of them on her mother's coverlet with a kiss, a deeper and dearer one, somehow, this morning. There was a card, and Mrs. Samstag read it and laughed: Good morning, Carrie. Louis.
It was then that Carrie Samstag, even in her lovely pink nightdress a crone with pain, and the cables out dreadfully in her neck, began by infinitesimal processes to swing herself gently to the side of the bed, unrelaxed inch by unrelaxed inch, softly and with the cunning born of travail.
There were little dark areas beneath them like smeared charcoal and two unrelenting sacs that threatened to become pouchy. Their effect was not so much one of years, but they gave Mrs. Samstag, in spite of the only slightly plump and really passable figure, the look of one out of health. What ailed her was hardly organic.
He was inordinately sensitive to these allusions, reddening and wanting to seem appropriate. "Poor, poor little woman!" "Heigh-ho," she said, and again, "Heigh-ho." It was about the eyes that Mrs. Samstag showed most plainly whatever inroads into her clay the years might have gained.
"You shouldn't have remained down so long if your head is hurting," said her daughter, and quite casually took up her mother's beaded hand-bag where it had fallen in her lap, but her fingers feeling lightly and furtively as if for the shape of its contents. "Stop that," said Mrs. Samstag, jerking it back, a dull anger in her voice. "Come to bed, mama.
"Foi!" said Mr. Latz, by way of somewhat unduly perhaps expressing his own kind of cognizance of the scented trail. "Fleur de printemps," said Mrs. Samstag in quick olfactory analysis. "Eight ninety-eight an ounce." Her nose crawling up to what he thought the cunning perfection of a sniff. "Used to it from home not? She is not.
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