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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Ma, are you going to stand there and let her talk to me thataway? I notice she's willing to borrow my loud shirtwaists and my loud gloves and my loud collars." "If ma had more gumption with you, maybe things would be different." Mrs. Hassiebrock limped to the door, dangling a pail. "I 'ain't got no more strength against her. My ears won't hold no more. I'm taking this hot oil down to Mrs.
Finally that door swung open again; the wide-shouldered, slim-hipped silhouette of Miss Hassiebrock moved swiftly and surely through the kind of early darkness, finding out for itself a wall telephone hung in a small patch of hallway separating kitchen and front room. Her voice came tight, as if it were a tense coil in her throat that she held back from bursting into hysteria.
With a wrench of her entire body, Miss Lola Hassiebrock was across the room at three capacity strides, swung open a door there, and stood, head flung up and pressing back tears, her lips turned inward. "All right, then tell " After them, the immediately locked door resisting, Genevieve fell to batting the panels. "Let me in! Let me in! You're fussin' about your beaux.
"Yes sir," resumed Miss Hassiebrock, her voice twanging in her effort at suppression, "I notice you're pretty willing to borrow some of my loud dressing when you get a bid once in a blue moon to take a boat-ride up to Alton with that sad-faced Roy Brownell. If Charley didn't have a cent to his name and a harelip, he'd make Roy Brownell look like thirty cents."
Miss Hassiebrock laid out a hand along his arm, sitting there in the quiet car, the trees closing over them. "There's Yiddles Farm a little farther out, Charley; let's stop there for some spring water." He was peeling out of his gauntlets, and cramming them into spacious side pockets. "Water, honey, can wash me, but it can't quench me." "No high jinks to-night, though, Charley?" "Sure no."
Silence. "Paula Krausnick only got C in de-portment. When the monitor passed the basin, she dipped her sponge soppin'-wet." "Anything new, ma?" Mrs. Hassiebrock, now at the sink, swabbed a dish with gray water. "My feet's killin' me," she said.
"I wish to Heaven somebody in this joint would remember to keep those front windows shut!" Miss Ida Bell Hassiebrock, at the right of the table, turned her head so that, against the window, her profile, somewhat thin, cut into the gloom. "There's a lot of things I wish around here," she said, without a ripple to her lips. "Hello, ma!" "I'll warm up the kohlrabi, Loo." Mrs.
Miss Hassiebrock entered with her face wry, made a diagonal cut of the room, side-stepping a patent rocker and a table laid out with knickknacks on a lace mat, slammed closed two windows, and, turning inward, lifted off her hat, which left a brand across her forehead and had plastered down her hair in damp scallops. "Whew!" "Lo-o, that you?" "Yes, ma." "Come out to your supper.
At the jewelry counter, a crystal rectangle facing broadside the main entrance and the bleached and sun-grilled street without, Miss Lola Hassiebrock, salient among many and with Olympian certainty of self, lifted two Junoesque arms like unto the handles of a vase, held them there in the kind of rigidity that accompanies a yawn, and then let them flop. "Oh-h-h-h, God bless my soul!" she said.
I'll warm up the kohlrabi." Miss Hassiebrock strode through a pair of chromatic portières, with them swinging after her, and into an unlit kitchen, gray with dusk. A table drawn out center and within range of the gas-range was a blotch in the gloom, three figures surrounding it with arms that moved vaguely among a litter of dishes.
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