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Updated: May 11, 2025
He had come back to us who never thought to see him again, who never wished to see him again, still unpurged of his stigma. As he passed me, I acknowledged his greeting, somewhat stiffly, I fear, and walked over to Schepstein's. There in the basement, amid the familiar wreckage as of a thousand umbrellas, sat little Annie. "Bonjour, Dominie," said she wistfully. "Good-morning, Annie.
They're going into Schepstein's basement." I could feel the Bonnie Lassie fidgeting on the bench. For a moment I endured it. Then I said: "Well, Lassie, why don't you?" "Why don't I what?" "Take your usual constitutional, over by the railings. Opposite Schepstein's." "That isn't my usual constitutional, and you know it, Dominie," said the Bonnie Lassie with dignity. "Isn't it?
By common consent we let him alone; he made his rounds unmolested, but also unpatronized. But for Annie Oombrella's prodigies of industry with pail and brush, the little couple in Schepstein's basement would have fared ill. Annie earned for both. In the process, happiness came back to her face. To the fat Rosser twin accrues the credit of a pleasurable discovery about Plooie.
For five years he had lived among us, occupying a cubbyhole in Schepstein's basement full of ribs, handles, crooks, patches, and springs, without appreciably improving his speech or his position. It was said that his name was Garin nobody really knew or cared and it was assumed from his speech that he was French. Few umbrellas came his way.
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