"She
would think you were weakening."
Full fifteen minutes of that frightful silence before she said: "I will go
where you wish." And she said it in a tone that makes me wince as I recall
it.
I called my partner's address up through the tube. Again that frightful
silence, then she was trying to choke back the sobs. A few words I caught:
"They have broken my will--they have broken my will."
* * * * *
My partner lived in a big, gray-stone house that stood apart and commanded
a noble view of the Hudson and the Palisades. It was, in the main, a
reproduction of a French chateau, and such changes as the architect had
made in his model were not positively disfiguring, though amusing. There
should have been trees and shrubbery about it, but--"As Mrs. B. says," Joe
had explained to me, "what's the use of sinking a lot of cash in a house
people can't see?" So there was not a bush, not a flower. Inside--One day
Ball took me on a tour of the art shops. "I've got a dozen corners and
other big bare spots to fill," said he. "Mrs. B. hates to give up money,
haggles over every article. I'm going to put the job through in business
style." I soon discovered that I had been brought along to admire his
"business style," not to suggest.
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