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Updated: June 2, 2025
The black-haired woman, with a certain evil-thinking, like one reflected upon harshly, finally clapped her bold black eyes on McLane's, and replied, chuckling: "I don't know as it do, Cunnil. Before my mother pinted the way, I loved the men. I loved 'em to be bad. Mommy tuk us as we drifted.
"Tell this man what you did," Joe Johnson spoke; "you waited till you saw the hat at the window, and fired, and fetched hat an' man to the ground?" Swallowing a thimbleful of McLane's brandy, the negro grunted "Blood!" and looked tremblingly at his hands. "What shape of hat was it?" McLane asked, shaking the negro savagely; "was it like this?" shaping his own soft slouched hat to a point.
It is notable how many of the really virile paintings here are by women -many of them of the younger groups. From Marion Pooke's polished but free "Silhouettes," and Alice Kent Stoddard's appealing "Sisters," to M. Jean McLane's joyously brilliant canvases on wall C, there is a wide range of achievement and promise. Gallery 85.
Montgomery, Mrs. Yorba, whose husband had recently built the largest and ugliest house in San Francisco, perched aloft on Nob Hill; several more of Mrs. McLane's favorites, old and young, and Maria Groome, born Ballinger, now a proud pillar of San Francisco Society. The dining-room of Ballinger House was long and narrow and from its bow window commanded a view of the Bay.
McLane's manner when we met him on leaving Kathleen; he also is worried." He paused and asked abruptly, "Has Kathleen seen Charles Miller?" "Not today." "When was he last here?" "Let me see," calculating on her fingers. "He came with you on Wednesday when I was here today is Saturday." "Did Kathleen see him on Wednesday?" "I don't think so." "Has he been here since?"
Passing rapidly up the stairs, Johnson saw a light shine in McLane's room, and he kicked the door wide open, exclaiming, "Bad luck everywhere; the gal's stone dead; the beaks are round us. Wake up, McLane!" "Joe!" said a voice, and Patty Cannon threw her arms around him. "To burning fire with you!" bellowed the filial son. "Take your arms away!" "Let us make up, Joe!
McLane's advice ... and dinner will be served in an hour. Please come down and get it while it is hot," and not waiting to hear his halfhearted promise she walked from the room and closed the door. It was some seconds before Whitney resumed his interrupted work. "Only a little while now," he muttered "only a little while." Before proceeding to her bedroom Mrs.
McLane's visitors departed, wiser women by that Thanksgiving Day visit, we hope. The Colonel's Repentance. The riotous excitement was slowly abating in the old city. The woods were full of panic-stricken, starving colored people, and trains were leaving the city laden with those who had means to get away.
The old man nodded, the boy stared. Grant growled something, with-out looking up. These "finical" things of saying good morning and good night are not much practiced in such homes as Grant McLane's. "Need some help? I'm ready to take a hand. Got on my regimentals this morning." Grant looked at him a moment. "You look like it." "Gimme a hold on that fork, and I'll show you.
He only hoped I would not incline to join McLane's troop, and when I asked why, declaring that to be my utmost desire, he said it was a service of needless peril. Upon this I laughed so that the hut shook, and poor Jack became quite disconcerted, and fell to making a variety of excuses. It is of this he says: "Hugh is come from death, and there is more to live for.
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