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Old Lady Number 31 by Louise Forsslund
page 57 of 124 (45%)

"Poor leetle Angy," broke in the gentle Miss Ellie pityingly. "She must
'a' lost six pounds."

Abraham's mobile face clouded over.

"Angy?" he faltered. "Yew don't mean that Angy--" Silence again fell on
the group, while every glance was fastened on Abraham. "See here," he
flashed his faded blue eye, "Angy's got more sense than that!"

No one answered, but there was a significant shrugging of shoulders and
lifting of eyebrows. Abraham was distressed and concerned enough now.
Rising from his place he besought the sisters:

"Yew don't think Angy's feelin's have been hurt--dew yew, gals?"

Their faces softened, their figures relaxed, the tide of feeling changed
in Abraham's favor. Miss Ellie spoke very softly:

"Yew know that even 'the Lord thy God is a jealous God.'"

Abraham grasped the back of his chair for support, his figure growing
limp with astonishment. "Mother, jealous of me?" he whispered to
himself, the memory of all the years and all the great happenings of all
the years coming back to him. "Mother jealous of me?" He remembered how
he had once been tormented by jealousy in the long, the ever-so-long
ago, and of a sudden he hastened into the hall and went half-running up
the stairs. He took hold of the latch of his bedroom door. It did not
open. The door was locked.

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