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Updated: June 17, 2025
Two street sweepers, seated on a curbstone, were discussing a comrade who had died the day before. "Bill certainly was a good sweeper," said one. "Y-e-s," conceded the other thoughtfully. "But don't you think he was a little weak around the lamp-posts?" His face was pinched and drawn. With faltering footsteps he wended his way among the bustling Christmas crowd.
"Yes no that is, I AM Miss Hawthorn, and I've met you at Miss Neilson's," stammered the girl, faintly. "But there isn't anything, thank you, that you can do Mr. Henshaw. I stopped to rest." The man frowned. "But, surely pardon me, Miss Hawthorn, but I can't think it your usual custom to choose an icy curbstone for a resting place, with the thermometer down to zero. You must be ill.
In the midst of Hubert's conflicting thoughts, Maillard returned. "This way, Varrick," he called cheerily from the door-way; and a moment later Varrick was hurried into the coupé, which had just drawn up to the curbstone, and, with Maillard seated beside him, was soon whirling in the direction of the Northrup mansion to which a servant admitted them.
Mary Jane stood on the curbstone and stared into the middle of the street. Her face was white with fright and the tears which had not as yet come were close to her big blue eyes. Her little fists were clinched and even her perky plaid hair ribbon seemed to show amazement. And wasn't it enough to make any little girl stare?
A possible use to put one's reading to; yet for that man the book is not art. Another may be entertained by the spectacle of the persons as they exhibit themselves in Thackeray's pages, much as he might stop a moment on the curbstone and watch a group of children at play in the street. Here he is a looker-on, holding himself aloof; and for him, again, the book is not art.
Then he sat down upon the curbstone, and, with his dizzy eyes shut, leaned forward for the better accommodation of his ensanguined nose. Wesley had retreated to the other side of the street holding a grimy handkerchief to the midmost parts of his pallid face. "There, you ole damn pup!" he shouted, in a voice which threatened to sob.
An' there ain't no blime laid on Godamighty." An' me, I'd nussed the child an' I clawed me 'air sime as if I was 'is mother an' I screamed out, 'Then damn 'im! An' the curick 'e dropped sittin' down on the curbstone an' 'id 'is fice in 'is 'ands." Dart hid his own face after the manner of the wretched curate. "No wonder," he groaned. His blood turned cold.
I shut out the picture of him, faint and bleeding, and opened my eyes to the work before us. We were like the lost dogs on a race-course that run between lines of hooting men. On every side we were assailed with cries. Even the voices of women mocked at us. Men sprang at my bridle, and my horse rode them down. They shot at us from the doors of the cafes, from either curbstone.
Their departure was something in the nature of a flight. They all three knelt on the narrow curbstone which surrounded the freshly turned patch of earth. They wept in silence; Olivier sobbed. Madame Jeannin mopped her eyes mournfully. She augmented her grief and tortured herself by saying to herself over and over again the words she had spoken to her husband the last time she had seen him alive.
Excuse me moment, and I'll wager twenty gold florins against yonder linden leaf that, ere the moonlight has left the curbstone, I can tell you my lady's colour." As he spoke he hastened towards the figure, now, standing motionless within the shadow of the door post beside the lofty entrance. Wolff Eysvogel remained alone, gazing thoughtfully upon the ground.
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