The moral any man may draw for himself. I only want to ask my readers
the question I have been asking myself ever since I saw the girl: Why
should such things be among us?
* * * * *
Marny's studio is over the Art Club.
He was at work on a picture of a canon with some Sioux Indians in the
foreground, while I sat beside him, watching the play of his
masterly brush.
Dear old Aunt Chloe, in white apron and red bandanna, her round black
face dimpled with smiles, was busying herself about the room,
straightening the rugs, puffing up the cushions of the divan, pushing
back the easels to get at the burnt ends of abandoned cigarettes, doing
her best, indeed, to bring some kind of domestic order out of Marny's
Bohemian chaos.
Now and then she interpolated her efforts with such remarks as:
"No, doan' move. De Colonel"--her sobriquet for Marny--"doan' keer whar
he drap his seegars. But doan' you move, honey"--sobriquet for me. "I
kin git 'em." Or "Clar to goodness, you pillows look like a passel o'
hogs done tromple ye, yo're dat mussed.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25