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As Henry came blithely into the house with a heavy suit-case in one hand and a cumbersome kit-bag in the other, his Aunt Mirabelle marched out like a grenadier from the living-room, and posted herself in the hallway to watch him approach. There was this much to say for Aunt Mirabelle: she was at least consistent, and for twenty years she had worn the same expression whenever she looked at him.
She keeps 'em all guessin'. Hard in the heart, Mirabelle has been, ever since she got thrown overboard herself." "Eh?" says I. "When was that? Who did it?" "Oh, near a year now," says Marcus. "You know the feller who was in with me here Chuck Dempsey?" "The big husk with the bushy black eyebrows?" says I. Marcus nods. "He had Mirabelle goin' all right," says he. "She was crazy over him.
This ruse was his amendment; and although he could no longer see any value in it for the purposes of his private feud, yet he was passing it for two reasons; Mirabelle was one, and the public was the other. Even a reformer must occasionally justify his title; and besides, it wasn't the sort of thing which could injure the majesty of his reputation. On this, then, Mr.
"Mirabelle," said Mr. Mix, "we've got to do some missionary work first. And before you can do missionary work, whether it's for religion or politics or reform, you've got to have a fund." "Fund? Fund? To get an ordinance passed? Why don't you walk in and hand it to 'em?" He shook his head. "I was in politics a good many years.
And I expect there ain't a young hick or a middle-aged bookkeeper on all them twenty-odd floors but what has had his little thrill from gettin' in line, some time or another, with a cut-up look from them high voltage eyes. She's just one of the many perils, Mirabelle is, that line the path of the poor working man in the great city. That is, she looks the part.
And to both doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Starkweather, who knew his destiny, whispered the same message at intervals of fifteen minutes. "Don't have Henry come back don't have Henry come back no sense his comin' back 'till August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I want him to stay over there 'till August." And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr.
"Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle explained to me in the clearest manner that suicide is an act of despair." But Constantin Marc was inquiring of Pradel with interest, whether Lydie, the little super, was pretty. "You have seen her in La Nuit du 23 octobre; she plays the woman of the people who, in the Plaine de Grenelle, is buying wafers of Madame Ravaud."
"Of course," I goes on, "if it's only a case of adoption " "Say," she breaks in, her eyelids gettin' narrow, "some of you cerise blondes ought to be confined to the comic strips. Who do you think you're kidding, anyway?" "Sorry, Mirabelle," says I, "but you're all wrong. This is straight heart-to-heart stuff. You know you've been stringin' Vincent along." "Suppose I have?" demands Mirabelle.
He frowned thoughtfully: and then, after a little search, he examined the pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and skimmed through the pages until he came to the paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of the Sunday ordinances ... hm!... present ordinance seems to prohibit Sunday theatrical performances of all kinds, but city administrations have always been lax.
And what couldn't he do with such a benefice? Of course, he would have to profess some slight interest in the League for awhile, but gradually he could slide out of it and he hoped that he could engineer Mirabelle out of it. Mirabelle made herself too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle stuck to her colours, Mr. Mix needn't hesitate to drift away that is, after he had received his settlement.
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