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Updated: June 18, 2025
She thought that she would like to buy him a suit of very nice clothes and a gold chain, and build a mule barn for the mules, but the law wouldn't give Miss Deacon Sypher a cent; the law said that if anything wuz gin it would go to the Deacon's next of kin, a brother who lived way off in the Michigan. The Deacon owned her bones, but she didn't own the Deacon's! Well, so it wuz.
But, as I said, this had been spozen. But it is known from actual eyesight that she marks all her sheets, and napkins, and piller-cases, and such, "M. D. S." And I asked her one day what the M. stood for, for I 'spozed, of course, the D. S. stood for Drusillia Sypher. And she told me with a real lot of dignity that the initials stood for "Miss Deacon Sypher."
It was Emmy's duty to save her husband from the dust and ashes of his present cosiness, if she could do nothing else for him; and she, Zora, in her magnificence, was going to see that Emmy's duty was performed. Instead of writing she would start the next morning for Paris. It would be well if Septimus could accompany her. "Mrs. Dix is coming to London, I believe," said Sypher.
She was not in a mood to appreciate Clem Sypher, whose loud voice and Napoleonic manners jarred upon her nerves. Septimus thought it all prodigiously fine, whereat Emmy waxed sarcastic. "I wish I could do something for you," he said, heedless of her taunts, during a moment when they were out of earshot of the others.
Then she said deliberately: "He knew that I loved you all the time." Sypher plucked the illustrated paper from her hand and cast it across the room, and, bending over the arm of his chair, seized her wrist. "Zora, do you mean that?" She nodded, fluttered a glance at him, and put out her free hand to claim a few moments' grace. "I left you to look for a mission in life.
It's supposed to be 'stylish' nowadays. In my time it was immodest. When a young woman was forced to journey alone she made herself as inconspicuous as possible. Zora ought to have a husband to look after her. Then she could do as she liked or as he liked, which would be much the best thing for her." "I happen to be in Mrs. Middlemist's confidence," said Sypher.
Deacon Sypher wanted his wife to know at once that if she wuzn't married she could have become a deaconess under his derectin'.
She had been brought up to believe in doctors, the Catechism, the House of Lords, the inequality of the sexes, and the Oldrieve family, and in that faith she would live and die. Sypher bore her no malice. She did not call the Cure pestilential quackery. He was beginning not to despise the day of small things.
Sypher sat at his desk, his chin in his hand, and struggled with his soul, which, as all the world knows, is the most uncomfortable thing a man has to harbor in his bosom. After a few minutes he rang up a number on the telephone. "Are you the Shaftesbury Club? Is Mr. Septimus Dix in?"
Sister Sypher is so wrapped up in Deacon Sypher that she would embrace a buzz saw mill or any other enterprise he could bring to bear onto her. "She would be perfectly willin' to be trompled on," so she often sez, "if Deacon Sypher wuz to do the tromplin'." Some sez he duz.
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