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Updated: June 8, 2025
Witla from ma-ma´'s description and the way in which you talk to everybody." "And how do I talk to everybody, may I ask, pleasum?" "Oh, I can't tell you so easily. I mean, I can't find the words, you know. I know how it is, though. Familiarly, I suppose I mean. Will you have one lump or two?" "Three an thou pleasest. Didn't your mother tell me you sang or played?"
Morgenbau had conceived the idea that Eugene was destined to make a great hit of some kind and with that kindling intuition that sometimes saves us whole he was anxious to help Eugene in some way and so gain his favor. "I have something I'd like to tell you, Mr. Witla," he observed. "Well, what is it?" smiled Eugene. "Are you going out to lunch?" "Certainly, come along."
Witla would marry. You'll just have to pardon my calling him Eugene. I'll get over it after a bit, I suppose, now that he's married. But we've been such good friends and I admire his work so much. How do you like studio life or are you used to it?"
Just before he left for New York, Christina said to him: "Now, when you see me again I will be Miss Channing of New York. You will be Mr. Witla. We will almost forget that we were ever here together. We will scarcely believe that we have seen what we have seen and done what we have done." "But, Christina, you talk as though everything were over. It isn't, is it?"
Her hands, Eugene noted, were plump and fair. She stood erect, assured, with the least touch of quizzical light in her eye. A white, pink-bordered dress draped her girlish figure. "I don't know," he said easily, "but I wager a guess that this is that this is this is Suzanne Dale what?" "Yes, this is," she replied laughingly. "Can I give you a cup of tea, Mr. Witla? I know you are Mr.
To see Suzanne, proud in her young beauty, confronting her with bold eyes, holding her husband's hand, saying in what seemed to her to be brutal, or insane, or silly melodramatic make-believe, "But I love him, Mrs. Witla," was maddening. Oh, God! Oh, God! Would her tortures never cease? Must all her beautiful dreams come to nothing?
Now she was, really, truly, Mrs. Eugene Witla. She did not need to worry about drowning herself, or being disgraced, or enduring a lonely, commiserated old age. She was the wife of an artist a rising one, and she was going to live in New York. What a future stretched before her! Eugene loved her after all. She imagined she could see that.
A car appeared one evening at the door immediately after dinner, a great red touring car, and Mrs. Wilson announced easily, "We're going for a little spin after dinner, Mr. Witla. Don't you want to come along?" Eugene had never ridden in an automobile at that time. "I'd be very pleased," he said, for the thought of a lonely evening in an empty house had sprung up when he saw it appear.
Suzanne had been afraid that he was going to begin complimenting her, but seeing how easily he avoided this course she liked him for it. She was a little overawed by his dignity and mental capacity, but attracted by his gaiety and lightness of manner. "Do you know, Mr. Witla," she said, "I believe you like to tease people." "Oh, no!" said Eugene. "Oh, never, never! Nothing like that.
Summerfield looked about at the poor neighborhood, the inlet of a canal some two blocks east where a series of black coal pockets were and to the north where there was flat open country and a railroad yard. "Why, that's all right," he said, in his direct, practical way. "It doesn't make any difference to me. It does to you, though, Witla.
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