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Updated: May 9, 2025
Rhoda sat silently looking at the squaw's squat figure, the toil-scarred fingers, the good brown eyes out of which looked a woman's soul. Vaguely Rhoda caught a point of view that made her old ideals seem futile. She smoothed the Indian woman's hands. "I sometimes think you are a bigger woman than I am, Molly," she said humbly. "You are heap good to look at." Molly spoke wistfully.
Lizzie put out a plump, toil-scarred hand and drew Lydia to her. "There, dearie! Think about other things. What shall poor old Liz fix you for lunch?" The child rubbed her bright cheek against the old woman's faded one. "You are a solid comfort to me, Lizzie," she said with a sigh. Then after a moment she exclaimed, eagerly, "Oh! Lizzie, do you think we could have a deviled egg?
Withal, there was something so comfortable and motherly about her, the kind, wise eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were so misty with welcome and unspoken thoughts of the dear mother Rose had lost, that the girl went out to her sincerely even as she marvelled that the same years on the same farm which had given one person added polish and had made him even more good looking than ever, could have changed another so completely and turned her into such a toil-scarred, frumpy, oldish woman.
I had the popular desire to work my way through school when I entered Siwash, and I pictured myself at the end of my college career receiving my diploma in my toil-scarred fist, without having had a cent from home. But pshaw! I was a joke.
Presently he heard a sound behind him, and looked round to see an old man clad in the robe of a master-workman, whose pure and noble face seemed in a strange contrast to his rough garments and toil-scarred hands. "Be seated and tell me your business," said Marcus courteously, and with a bow his visitor obeyed.
With sudden inspiration she grasped the Indian woman's toil-scarred hands. "Listen, Molly! Before I knew Kut-le, I was going to marry the white man, DeWitt. And after he stole me I hated Kut-le and I hated the desert. And now, O Molly, I love both Kut-le and the desert, and I must marry the white man!" "Why? You tell Molly why?" "Because he is white, Molly, like me.
Creddle so panted for breath that she could only sign with a toil-scarred hand for Caroline to go back into shelter, but on reaching a little protection from the wind she managed to gasp out: "Nobody's ill. There's nothing the matter. Not in a manner of speaking. Can I come inside there?" Caroline took her arm and put her into the chair, then shut the door in the side of the little wooden turret.
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