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Updated: May 1, 2025
Tessie was buoyant and colorful with youth. The other was shrunken and faded with years and labor. As the girl minced across the room in her absurdly high-heeled shoes, the older woman thought: My, but she's pretty! But she said aloud: "I should think you'd stay home once in a while and not be runnin' the streets every night." "Time enough to be sittin' home when I'm old like you."
And Metta Judson she was the best cook anywhere around Simsbury. He mustn't forget to write to Metta, and to Tessie Kearns, to be sure and see The Blight of Broadway when it came to the Bijou Palace. They would be surprised to see those close ups that Henshaw had used him in. And he was in that other picture.
"No, it's a nice little place." They beached their boat, and built a little fire, and had supper on the river bank, and Tessie picked out the choice bits for him the breast of the chicken, beautifully golden brown; the ripest tomato; the firmest, juiciest pickle; the corner of the little cake which would give him a double share of icing.
Quarter after 5. Now for sure and certain it is midnight. Half-past 5. My earrings begin to hurt. You can take off earrings. But FEET— Tessie says she's eaten too many candies; her stomach does her pain. Her feet aren't so hurting now her magen is so bad. I couldn't eat another chocolate for five dollars, but my stomach refused to feel in any way that takes my mind in the least off my feet.
All that day, at the bench, she was the reckless, insolent, audacious Tessie of six months ago. Nap Ballou was always standing over her, pretending to inspect some bit of work or other, his shoulder brushing hers. She laughed up at him so that her face was not more than two inches from his. He flushed, but she did not. She laughed a reckless little laugh.
It was the second day of her service at Glenmore that Tessie overheard her young mistress use the name "Marcia" when calling over the telephone. "Marcia! Might it be Marcia Osborne!" Tessie almost gasped. Then when she heard further a "good-bye, and Jacqueline hoped they would all have a lovely trip west," Tessie breathed freely.
Look how red the sky is!" delivered as unemotionally as a weather bulletin. Tessie Golden sat on the top step of the back porch now, a slim, inert heap in a cotton house coat and scuffed slippers. Her head was propped wearily against the porch post. Her hands were limp in her lap. Her face was turned toward the west, where shone that mingling of orange and rose known as salmon pink.
“Don't you know, it's awful in Europe,” volunteers Mrs. Lewis. “One hundred thousand unemployed in Paris alone—saw it in headlines this morning,” I advance. “Paris?” said Tessie. “Paris? Where's Paris?” If one could always be so sure of one's facts. “France.” Mrs.
There had been a time when Tessie, if she thought of these women at all, felt sorry for them; worn, drab, lacking in style and figure. Now she envied them. For the maternal may be strong at twenty. There were weeks upon weeks when no letter came from Chuck. In his last letter there had been some talk of his being sent to Russia.
Dagmar flinched, but Tessie smiled in a foolish attempt to gain his good will. "Where are you two trottin' off to all alone?" he asked finally. "We're goin' to grandma's," said Tessie, so ridiculously that she almost burst out laughing. She had no idea the answer would sound so silly. "Oh! you be," he returned, his voice thick with irony. "Is the old lady expectin' you?"
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