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Updated: August 23, 2024
A smudge the size of a quarter and the color of Hattie's guaranteed-not-to-fade cheek, lay incredibly on Marcia's whiteness. Hattie had smudged Marcia! Hattie Had Smudged Marcia! There it lay on her beautiful, helpless whiteness. Hattie's smudge. It is doubtful, from the way he waited with his soft hat dangling from soft fingers, if Morton had ever really expected anything else.
Quietly she gathered Hattie's frail wrists in the grip of one strong palm, and held the cone to her face until she had passed off with a long sigh. She picked her up lightly, carried her into the next room, and laid her upon the operating-table. At the last moment Lloyd had busied herself with the preparation of her own person.
Jane told her husband that they should not want theirs the same night, of course, as Hattie's, and that if she had hers right away the next night, she could eat up any of the cakes or ice cream that was left from Hattie's party, and thus save buying so much new for herself.
It was very late when he reached Hattie's door, but he opened it with his latch-key, as he had been used to do. He stopped to help himself to a glass of brandy, as he had so often done before. Then he went directly to her room. She was a light sleeper, and his step awakened her. "Who is it?" she cried in affright. "It 's me." His voice was steadier now, but grim. "What do you want?
You know there is an old proverb 'The sheep has a golden hoof. They save me the trouble of ploughing. I haven't ploughed my orchard for ten years, and don't expect to plough it for ten years more. Then your Aunt Hattie's hens are so obliging that they keep me from the worry of finding ticks at shearing time. All the year round, I let them run among the sheep, and they nab every tick they see."
He is taken for granted, and besides, Miss MacLauren is becoming sensitive because there was no one but William. The next day she was approached by Hattie and Rosalie, who each had a note. They mentioned it casually, but Hattie's tone had a ring. Was it satisfaction? And Rosalie's laugh was touched with gratification, for the notes were official, inviting them, too, to become Platonians.
She confessed herself as glad to be a nintimate friend. When Emmy Lou found that to be a nintimate friend meant to walk about the yard with Hattie's arm about her, she was glad indeed to be one.
Lloyd could almost feel, physically, actually, feel the slow, sullen, resistless pull that little by little was dragging Hattie's life from her grip. She set her teeth, holding back with all her might, bracing herself against the strain, refusing with all inborn stubbornness to yield her position. "No no," she repeated to herself, "you shall not have her.
But there was something in sight a few hours later something that put Beardsley in such a rage that he did not get over it for a day or two. It was a schooner a little larger than his own, and she was standing directly across the Hattie's bows.
"O God!" A malaprop of a tear, too heavy to wink in, came rolling suddenly down Hattie's cheek. "Morton let us live for God's sake! Please!" He regarded the clean descent of the tear down Hattie's color-fast cheek and its clear drop into the bosom of her black-taffeta housemaid's dress. "By Jove! The stuff is color-fast! You've a fortune in that cream if you handle it right, honey."
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