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Updated: June 14, 2025
"I think I will go to Caxton in the morning and have a talk with Mary Underwood," he said. After his return from Caxton Sam set about finding some new interest to occupy Sue's mind. He had spent an afternoon talking to Valmore, Freedom Smith, and Telfer and thought there was a kind of flatness in their jokes and in their ageing comments on each other.
Sam sometimes found his attitude toward them puzzling and would stand with open mouth listening as Telfer swore or laughed at a book as he did at Valmore or Freedom Smith. He had a fine portrait of Browning which he kept hung in the stable and before this he would stand, his legs spread apart, and his head tilted to one side, talking. "A rich old sport you are, eh?" he would say, grinning.
But she felt keenly the social ostracism which was still strong toward the stage of 1800, and bewailed in her poetry the "honors divine by night allowed, by day anathematized." In 1817 she married an actor, M. Valmore, who subsequently disappeared into obscure official life, accepting with joy a position as catalogue-maker in the National Library.
What in her daughter should she make so much her own as that daughter's love for her daughter in turn? There are no lapses. Marceline Valmore, married to an actor who seems to have "created the classic genre" in vain, found the sons and daughters of other women in want.
With all his heart he wanted to repeat a sentence he had heard from the lips of grey-haired, big-fisted Valmore "How can they believe and not lead a life of simple, fervent devotion to their belief?" He thought himself superior to the thin-lipped man who talked with him and had he been able to express what was in his heart he might have said, "Look here, man!
Some of the men joined Telfer and Valmore, talking in low, excited voices. "And Mary McKane, too, the hypocrite," Sam heard one of them say. The voice inside the jail changed. Still praying, Mike McCarthy seemed also to be talking to the group in the darkness outside. "I am sick of my life. I have sought leadership and have not found it. Oh Father!
The banker, taking up the packages, walked out at the door. Valmore and Freedom Smith went over to the livery barn for a game of pinochle. And John Telfer, twirling his cane and calling to a troup of dogs that loitered in an alley back of the store, took Sam for a walk into the country.
Telfer would pound on the side of the building with his cane and roar with laughter. Valmore would make a trumpet of his hands and shout after the fleeing boy. "Do you sleep out alone in them green pastures?" Freedom Smith would roar again. Sam got up and went out of the grocery. As he hurried along, blind with wrath, he felt he would like a stand-up fight with some one.
"If you must be eloquent talk of ice cream or mint juleps or recite a verse about the old swimming pool." Telfer, wetting his finger, thrust it into the air. "The wind is in the north-west; the beasts roar; we will have a storm," he said, winking at Valmore. Banker Walker came into the store, followed by his daughter. She was a small, dark-skinned girl with black, quick eyes.
In his room in Chicago he had spent an evening writing and rewriting, putting in and taking out flourishes, and had ended by sending a brief line of thanks. Valmore, whose affection for the boy had been a slow growth and who, now that he was gone, missed him more than the others, once spoke to Freedom Smith of the change that had come over young McPherson.
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