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Updated: June 1, 2025
Tretherick had sent for this child of his first wife this child of whose existence he had never seemed to care just to insult her, to fill her place. Doubtless the first wife herself would follow soon, or perhaps there would be a third. Red hair, not auburn, but RED of course the child, this Caroline, looked like its mother, and, if so, she was anything but pretty.
"But a papa to help mamma take care of you, to love you, to give you nice clothes, to make a lady of you when you grow up?" Carry turned her sleepy eyes toward the questioner. "Should YOU, mamma?" Mrs. Tretherick suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. "Go to sleep," she said sharply, and turned away.
An animated conversation at once ensued between Ah Fe and his brother Mongolians, a conversation characterized by that usual shrill volubility and apparent animosity which was at once the delight and scorn of the intelligent Caucasian who did not understand a word of it. Such, at least, was the feeling with which Mr. Tretherick on his veranda, and Col.
After she had informed the doll that she was not her mother, at the close of the interview she added pathetically, "that if she was dood, very dood, she might be her mamma, and love her very much." I have already hinted that Mrs. Tretherick was deficient in a sense of humor.
"Did she ever know of your own troubles? of your poverty, of the sacrifices you made to pay her bills, of your pawning your clothes and jewels, of your" "No, no!" interrupted the woman quickly: "no! How could she? I have no enemy cruel enough to tell her that." "But if she or if Mrs. Tretherick had heard of it?
Tretherick, in her then state of mind, preferred to dwell upon the fact that she might be there. She was dimly conscious, also, of a certain satisfaction in exaggerating her feelings. Surely no woman had ever been so shamefully abused.
And then, of course, there came trouble. I have it from the soprano a little lady who possessed even more than the usual unprejudiced judgment of her sex that Mrs. Yet she had it from the best authority that Mrs. Tretherick had run away from her husband, and that this red-haired child who sometimes came in the choir was not her own. The tenor confided to me behind the organ that Mrs.
They mourned the loss of the fair abductor more than her offense. They promptly rejected Tretherick as an injured husband and disconsolate father, and even went so far as to openly cast discredit on the sincerity of his grief.
But, before he could say anything, Carry appeared on the landing above them, looking timidly, and yet half-critically, at the pair. "That's her," said Mrs. Tretherick excitedly. In her deepest emotions, in either verse or prose, she rose above a consideration of grammatical construction.
Tretherick went home flushed with triumph, but on reaching her room frantically told Carry that they were beggars henceforward; that she her mother had just taken the very bread out of her darling's mouth, and ended by bursting into a flood of penitent tears. They did not come so quickly as in her old poetical days; but when they came they stung deeply.
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