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Updated: June 8, 2025
Eugene slipped out quietly. His spirit was hurt and torn. What a scene! He, Eugene Witla, kicked at, and almost kicked out, and that in a job that paid six dollars a week. A great lump came up in his throat, but it went down again. He wanted to cry but he could not. He went downstairs, stovepolish on his hands and face and slipped up to the desk.
After a few days of desultory discussion, however, along the lines now so familiar, she began to see that her mother had no intention of terminating their stay at the time agreed upon, particularly since their return to New York meant, so far as Suzanne was concerned, her immediate departure to Witla. Mrs.
I heard you say last year that you were looking for a man, and I thought this might interest you." "What's he doing down on the World?" "He's been sick, I understand, and is just getting on his feet again." The explanation sounded sincere enough to Summerfield. "What's his name?" he asked. "Witla, Eugene Witla. He had an exhibition at one of the galleries here a few years ago."
"I think it advisable to tell you, Mr. Witla," said the old surgeon, "that your wife is in a serious condition. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily it may all come out very satisfactorily. I have no positive reason to be sure that it will not. She is pretty old to have a child. Her muscles are set. The principal thing we have to fear in her case is some untoward complication with her kidneys.
Perhaps he had better find out something about him. "If you send him you'd better give him a letter of introduction," he added thoughtfully, before Bates should have forgotten the matter. "So many people try to get in to see me, and I may forget." Baker knew at once that Summerfield wished to look at Witla.
And then there were all these other delightful qualities his looks, his genial manner, his reputation, his talent. What a delightful thing it had become to announce herself as Mrs. Eugene Witla and how those who knew about him sat up. Big people were his friends, artists admired him, common, homely, everyday people thought he was nice and considerate and able and very worth while.
Witla. Call me Eugene, will you?" "Well, now, listen to me, Mr. Mr. Eugene." "Not Mr. Eugene, just Eugene. Now say it. Eugene," he quoted his own name to her. "Now listen to me, Mr. now, listen to me, Eugene," she at last forced herself to say, and Eugene stopped her lips with his mouth. "There," he said.
One day he went down into Printing House Square to see if he could not make up his mind to apply at one of the newspaper art departments, when he ran into Hudson Dula whom he had not seen for a long while. The latter was delighted to see him. "Why, hello, Witla!" he exclaimed, shocked to see that he was exceptionally thin and pale. "Where have you been all these years? I'm delighted to see you.
Sanifore who called on her quite frequently in Philadelphia she met her at the Millers' told her that she was sure she could have one even if she was past the usual age for first babies; for she had known so many women who had. "If I were you, Mrs. Witla, I would see a doctor," she suggested one day. "He can tell you. I'm sure you can if you want to.
Witla was quite nice and young. "Ma-ma," she said, "did you look out of the window at Mr. Witla's?" "Yes, my dear!" "Wasn't that a beautiful view?" "Charming." "I should think you might like to live on the Drive sometime, ma-ma." "We may sometime." Mrs. Dale fell to musing. Certainly Eugene was an attractive man young, brilliant, able. What a mistake all the young men made, marrying so early.
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