Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 27, 2025
The shipping-agent was disgusted. He had estimated from Mr. Wrenn's cheap sweater-jacket and tennis-shoes that he would be able to squeeze out only three or four dollars, and here he might have made ten. More in sorrow than in anger: "Of course you understand I may have a lot of trouble working you in on the next boat, you coming as late as this. Course five dollars is less 'n what I usually get."
Wrenn's fancy was walking down a green lane of old France toward a white cottage with orange-trees gleaming against its walls. In her pictures he had found the land of all his forsaken dreams. "I I I " was all he could say, but admiration pulsed in it. "Thank you.... Yes, we will play. Good night. To-morrow!"
Wrenn went to the bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap, returned, and undressed Charley, who struggled and laughed and let his whole inert weight rest against Mr. Wrenn's shoulder. Though normally Charley could have beaten three Mr. Wrenns, he was run into the bath-room and poked into the tub. Instantly he began to splash, throwing up water in handfuls, singing.
He finished, hesitatingly, "I guess the English are kinda hard to get acquainted with." "Lonely, eh?" she mused, abrupt and bluffly kind as a man, for all her modulating woman's voice. "You don't know any of the people here in the house?" "No'm. Say, I guess we got rooms next to each other." "How romantic!" she mocked. "Wrenn's my name; William Wrenn.
They drank hot chocolate at the Olympic Confectionery Store, pretending to each other that they were shivering with cold. It was here that Nelly reached up and patted Mr. Wrenn's pale-blue tie into better lines. In her hair was the scent which he had come to identify as hers. Her white furs brushed against his overcoat.
The only person she hated was Horatio Hood Teddem, the cheap actor who was playing the piano at Mr. Wrenn's entrance. Just now Horatio was playing ragtime with amazing rapidity, stamping his foot and turning his head to smirk at the others. Mrs. Arty led her chattering flock to the basement dining-room, which had pink wall-paper and a mountainous sideboard. Mr. Wrenn was placed between Mrs.
On the day on which one of the Southern merchants wrote him about his son "fine young fellow, sir has every chance of rising to a lieutenancy on the Atlanta police force" Mr. Wrenn's eyes were moist. Here was a friend already. Sure. He would make friends. Then there was the cripple with the Capitol Corner News and Souvenir Stand in Austin, Texas. Mr.
She listened with stolid glumness to Mr. Wrenn's observation that that was "an awful big hat the lady with the funny guy had on." He was chilled into quietness till Papa Gouroff, the owner of the restaurant, arrived from above-stairs.
She waited till he had finished greeting her, then sniffed, and at her mother she snarled: "Ma, they went and kept us late again to-night. I'm getting just about tired of having a bunch of Jews and Yankees think I'm a nigger. Uff! I hate them!" "T'resa, Mist' Wrenn's just inherited two thousand dollars, and he's going to take that upper hall room." Mrs.
Over him the April clouds were fetterless vagabonds whose gaiety made him shrug with excitement and take a curb with a frisk as gambolsome as a Central Park lamb. There was no hint of sales-lists in the clouds, at least. And with them Mr. Wrenn's soul swept along, while his half-soled Cum-Fee-Best $3.80 shoes were ambling past warehouses.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking