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Updated: August 14, 2024
It was impossible to quarrel with Sara; she was as gay and irresponsible as a child; one might as well have been angry with a butterfly for brushing his gold-powdered wings across your face; the gentle flappings of Sara's speeches never raised a momentary vexation in my mind.
"The Indians know that the spirit blends with the Greater Spirit, and I myself have seen every atom that was mortal lift again and again to new life, out of the desert's atom drift." Jim shrugged his shoulders. Sara's eyes narrowed as he half smiled to himself. "For instance," Ames went on, "what are you making the third canal so big for? We don't need it that size.
At Sara's entrance, however, he awoke with a start; and Sara was terribly startled herself, because it was the first time anybody had really taken any notice of her. "Bring her some butter!" he commanded. At his command four of the courtiers drifted away, and presently returned carrying a silvery-white cloth, very rich and lustrous, woven of many thicknesses of milk-weed-silk.
Booth was never to forget the loveliness of her in that moment. He carried the image with him on the long walk home through the black night. The three of them stood there for a few minutes, awaiting the butler's announcement. Sara's arm was about Hetty's shoulders. He was so taken up with the picture they presented that he scarcely heard their light chatter.
On the third day after the singular trial of Hetty Castleton in Sara's library, young Mrs. Wrandall's motor drew up in front of a lofty office building in lower Broadway; its owner stepped down from the limousine and entered the building. A few moments later she walked briskly into the splendid offices of Wrandall & Co., private bankers and steamship-owners.
It was Sara's red mantle and she knew the faithful heart was waiting for her. "The dear old mother," she said, and hastening her footsteps soon reached Sara, who stood leaning on her stick and peering over the moor. "Here I am, mother!" she said, as cheerfully as she could. "'Merch fâch i!" said Sara tenderly, and they turned into the cottage together.
"I suppose some woman didn't fall into your arms just when you wanted her to?" she hazarded. She had not calculated the result of this thrust. His eyes blazed for a moment. Then, a shade of contempt blending with the former cool insouciance of his tone, he said quietly: "You don't expect an answer to that question, do you?" The snub was unmistakable, and Sara's cheeks burned.
Poor Sara, trembling all over, started hastily towards the wardrobe for her outer wraps, when a stamping outside the door arrested her, and in a moment the boy entered, knocking the last bit of snow from his boots as he did so. Sara's eyes, bent upon him, discovered something in his expression which made her cry out, "Morton, what have you been doing?" "Doing? Why"
He went in, and up-stairs to Sara's room. It was neat and clean, just as she had left it three years ago. But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture old-fashioned and shabby; she would think it a poor, mean place. Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now. Blossom would not care for orchards.
I am only thinking of Sara's husband, poor man! You see Polly's husband was an American, and that makes all the difference. You remember I told you of a man I met who in decorating his house wanted to have red walls as a background to his beautiful pictures, and his wife wanted to have green. I asked him what he did, and he said he made a compromise.
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