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The vast roof roared as the iron coursers stamped titanic hoofs of scorn at the little stay-at-home. That is a washed-out hint of how the poets might describe Mr. Wrenn's passion. What he said was "Gee!" He strolled by the lists of destinations hung on the track gates. Very well.
Wrenn's fancies contented him. He smiled as he addressed glossy red and green postcards to Lee Theresa and Goaty, Cousin John and Mr. Guilfogle, writing on each a variation of "Having a splendid trip. This is a very interesting old town. Wish you were here."
Wrenn's answer was in itself a proof of the soundness of Rabin's observation: "Sure I'm going to borrow some money from you fellows. Got to make an impression, see?" A few hours after this commendation came Istra's second letter: Mouse dear, I'm so glad to hear about the simpatico boarding- house. Yes indeed I would like to hear about the people in it. And you are reading history? That's good.
Her heavy brows were drawn close for a second, making a deep-cleft wrinkle of ennui over her nose, and two little indentations, like the impressions of a box corner, in her forehead over her brows. Mr. Wrenn's gaze ran down the line of her bosom again, and he wondered at her hands, which touched the heavy bread-and-butter knife as though it were a fine-point pen.
The head bookkeeper shook his head at Mr. Wrenn's inquiry: "Charley ain't here any longer." "Ain't here?" "No. He got through. He got to boozing pretty bad, and one morning about three weeks ago, when he had a pretty bad hang-over, he told Guilfogle what he thought of him, so of course Guilfogle fired him." "Oh, that's too bad. Say, you don't know his address, do you?"
Nelly and he always felt gently superior to Tom Poppins, who would be a-sleeping late, as they talked of the joy of not having to go to the office, of approaching Christmas, and of the superiority of Upton's Grove and Parthenon. This morning was to be Mr. Wrenn's first attendance at church with Nelly. The previous time they had planned to go, Mr.
It was something about a Persian kitten I don't remember exactly." Dr. Mittyford walked bitterly to the other end of the room. About eight in the evening Mr. Wrenn's landlady knocked with, "There's a gentleman below to see you, sir." "Me?" blurted Mr. Wrenn. He galloped down-stairs, panting to himself that Morton had at last found him. He peered out and was overwhelmed by a motor-car, with Dr.
Arty had guided Annie, the bashful maid, in serving the vegetable soup, and had coaxed her into bringing Mr. Wrenn a napkin, she took charge of the conversation, a luxury which she would never have intrusted to her flock's amateurish efforts. Mr. Poppins, said she, had spoken of meeting a friend of Mr. Wrenn's; Mr. Morton, was it not? A very nice man, she understood. Was it true that Mr.
For no more clearly, no more nobly did the golden Aucassin or lean Dante word that cry in their thoughts than did Mr. William Wrenn, Our Mr. Wrenn. A third-class steward with a mangy mustache and setter-like tan eyes came teetering down-stairs, each step like a nervous pencil tap on a table, and peered over the side of Mr. Wrenn's berth. He loved Mr.
Tom: Oh, how we will squat you!... What you bidding, Wrenn? Behind Mr. Wrenn, Nelly Croubel whispered to him: "Bid seven on no suit. You've got the joker." Her delicate forefinger, its nail shining, was pointing at a curious card in his hand. "Seven nosut," he mumbled. "Eight hearts," snapped Miss Proudfoot. Nelly drew up a chair behind Mr. Wrenn's.
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