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She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Spurlock felt very well pleased with himself. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. “John, did those roses cost a fortune?” “Like I’m going to tell you!” “Oh, John, they were so pretty, but they must have cost an arm and a leg, and you should be saving for college.
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This video was uploaded to freechristian.online on 02-07-2024 12:20:21
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