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Updated: May 18, 2025
As Tetlow stood at attention, Norman turned and advanced toward him. "Mr. Tetlow," he began, in his good-humored voice with the never wholly submerged under-note of sharpness, "is it your habit to go out to lunch with the young ladies employed here? If so, I wish to suggest simply to suggest that it may be bad for discipline." Tetlow's jaw dropped a little.
Tetlow hoped he hadn't, but, knowing the man, feared otherwise. And he was right. In the press of other matters Norman forgot Tetlow's remark remembered it again a few days later when he was taking the baby out for an airing in the motor forgot it again finally, when he took a several days' rest at home, remembered it and kept it in mind.
Author of "Kate Wetherell," "A Pillar of Salt," "The Son of a Fiddler," "Uncle William," "The Ibsen Secret," "Simeon Tetlow's Shadow," "Happy Island," "Mr. Achilles," "The Taste of Apples," "The Woman in the Alcove," "Aunt Jane," "The Symphony Play," "Unfinished Portraits," and "The Green Jacket." She lives in Northampton, Mass. John Fairchild's Mirror. LEWIS, ADDISON. Born in Minneapolis, 1889.
He distributed them himself, to make sure that the proprietor of the restaurant did not attempt to graft. Then he roused Gaskill and bundled him into the car and sent it away to his address. The tramps gathered round and gave Norman three cheers they pressed close while four of them tried to pick his and Tetlow's pockets.
And he said, 'Do you know that Norman is to be married in two weeks?" "So!" said Norman. "And I said, 'What of it? How does that interest me?" "It didn't interest you?" "I was surprised that you hadn't spoken of it," replied she. "But I was more interested in Mr. Tetlow's manner. What do you think he said next?" "I can't imagine," said Norman.
"But, Fred, you don't realize not all," he cried imploringly. "She discovered she thinks, I believe that is she she that probably that in a few months you'll be something more than a husband and she something more than a wife that you that you and she will be a father and a mother." Tetlow's meaning slowly dawned on Norman.
"I saw Tetlow," he said. "He promised to send me your address." At Tetlow's name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flitted into her eyes. "Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid! How sick I got of him!" Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred. "Why?" he asked. "Always warning me against everybody. Always giving me advice. It was too tiresome.
Then, over Tetlow's shoulder he saw on the marble-topped center table Dorothy's hat and jacket, the one she had worn away, the only one she had. He stared at them, then at Tetlow. A confused look in the fat, slow face made him say sharply: "What does this mean, Tetlow?" "Not so loud, Fred," said Tetlow, closing the door into the public hall. "She's in the bedroom probably asleep.
Don't let him know you've heard, if you see him or he sends for you. Remember, it's in my hands entirely." "Trust me." Tetlow's voice, suppressed and jubilant, suggested a fat, hoarse rooster trying to finish a crow before a coming stone from a farm boy reaches him. "It seems natural and easy to you, old man. But I'm about crazy with joy. I'll come right over." "No. I'm going home."
"I thought you cared about her," said Norman, who in estimating Tetlow's passion had measured it by his own, had neglected to consider that the desires of most men soon grow short of breath and weary of leg. "Yes so I did care for her," said Tetlow, in the voice of a man who has been ill but is now well. "But that's all over. Women aren't worth bothering about much. They're largely vanity.
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