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Updated: July 13, 2025
At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers's illness and of the resulting complications. She listened sympathetically, adjuring him not to let himself be overworked, and asking vague feminine questions about the routine of the office. Then she gave him the chronicle of Lily's day; quoted the nurse and doctor, and told him who had called to inquire. He had never seen her more serene and unruffled.
"Well, you must have found twenty or thirty thousand dollars in those clothes, in money or certificates of deposit." "No, I found only five hundred and a trifle. I borrowed the trifle and banked the five hundred." "What'll we do about it?" "Return it to the owner." "It's easy said, but not easy to manage. Let's leave it alone till we get Sellers's advice. And that reminds me.
If she's got to marry a spectre, let her marry a decent one out of the Middle Ages, like this one not a cowboy and a thief such as this protoplasmic tadpole's going to turn into if Sellers keeps on fussing at it. It costs five thousand dollars cash and shuts down on the incorporated company to stop the works at this point, but Sally Sellers's happiness is worth more than that."
Sellers's was not sumptuous, in the beginning, but it improved on acquaintance.
It was soon apparent that this was indeed the dinner: it was all on the table: it consisted of abundance of clear, fresh water, and a basin of raw turnips nothing more. Washington stole a glance at Mrs. Sellers's face, and would have given the world, the next moment, if he could have spared her that. The poor woman's face was crimson, and the tears stood in her eyes.
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