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Updated: June 8, 2025
Angela by personal energy and explanation found four rooms in the house of a furniture manufacturer; it had been vacated by a daughter who had married, and they were glad to let it to an artist and his wife for practically nothing so far as real worth was concerned, for this was a private house in a lovely lawn. Twelve dollars per month was the charge. Mrs. Witla seemed very charming to Mrs.
It just occurred to me that for the sake of good feeling all around, you might like to strike a balance. You might be willing to take, say six months, or a year and think about it. Mr. Witla would probably not object.
"What was she saying?" "Oh, what a nice man you are, and how able you are." "Oh, nothing like that," replied Eugene jestingly. "Yes, she did. And I think Mrs. Witla likes me. I can meet you sometimes when I'm there, but we must be so careful. I mustn't stay out long today. I want to think things out, too. You know I'm having a real hard time thinking about this." Eugene smiled.
His partiality may perhaps be ascribed to his strong inclination toward the life of art, through which his 'Genius' moves, half hero and half picaro. Witla remains mediocre enough in all but his sexual unscrupulousness, but he is impelled by a driving force more or less like those forces which impel Cowperwood. The will to wealth, the will to love, the will to art Mr.
As he approached, M. Charles' raised eyebrows indicated that he would be very pleased to know what he could do for Mr. Witla. "I should like to show you several reproductions of pictures of mine," began Eugene in his most courageous manner.
You don't know the facts. Mrs. Witla doesn't love him any more. She told me so. She has written me so. I had the letter and gave it back to Eugene. He doesn't care for her. She knows it. She knows he cares for me. What difference does it make if she doesn't love him. He's entitled to love somebody. Now I love him. I want him. He wants me. Why shouldn't we have each other?"
"Tell that to Witla," was a common phrase about the office and Eugene was always listening to someone. He came to lunching with first one and then another, then three or four at a time; and by degrees Angela was compelled to entertain Eugene and two or three of his friends twice and sometimes three times a week.
How she had slipped her hand into his so sweetly and had said, "But I love him, Mrs. Witla." Yes, she loved him. No doubt of that. She was young, exquisite, beautifully rounded in her budding emotion and feeling. She was going to develop into a wonderful woman, a real one. And she was so young. What a pity it was he was not free now!
Thomas Jefferson Witla, the father, was a sewing machine agent with the general agency in that county of one of the best known and best selling machines made. From each twenty, thirty-five or sixty-dollar machine which he sold, he took a profit of thirty-five per cent.
He was no longer, or at least not going to be, he thought, the ambling, cowardly, dreaming Witla he had been. He was going to stand up, and he did begin to. "Remember, you are the last word here, Witla," Summerfield had told him on one occasion. "If anything goes wrong here, you're to blame. Don't make any mistakes. Don't let anyone accuse you falsely. Don't run to me. I won't help you."
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