"
"No wonder you got rheumatism. My room was like a
ice-house all day. Yours too?"
"I don't complain any more. Much good it does.
Barley soup again? In my own home I never ate it, and
here I pay my good money and get four time a week barley
soup. Are those fresh cucumbers? M-m-m-m. They
haven't stood long enough. Look at Mis' Miller. She
feels good this evening. She should feel good.
Twenty-five cents she won at bridge. I never seen how
that woman is got luck."
I choked, gasped, and fled.
Back in my own mausoleum once more I put things in
order, dragged my typewriter stand into the least murky
corner under the bravest gas jet and rescued my tottering
reason by turning out a long letter to Norah. That
finished, my spirits rose. I dived into the bottom of my
trunk for the loose sheets of the book-in-the-making,
glanced over the last three or four, discovered that they
did not sound so maudlin as I had feared, and straightway
forgot my gloomy surroundings in the fascination of
weaving the tale.
In the midst of my fine frenzy there came a knock at
the door. In the hall stood the anemic little serving
maid who had attended me at dinner. She was almost
eclipsed by a huge green pasteboard box.
Pages:
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238