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An Alabaster Box by Florence Morse Kingsley;Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman
page 44 of 320 (13%)
fun of him. Suppose she had her own aspirations in other quarters. He
walked on until he reached the old Bolton house. The door stood open,
askew upon rusty hinges. Wesley Elliot entered and glanced about him
with growing curiosity. The room was obviously a kitchen, one side
being occupied by a huge brick chimney inclosing a built-in range
half devoured with rust; wall cupboards, a sink and a decrepit table
showed gray and ugly in the greenish light of two tall windows,
completely blocked on the outside with over-grown shrubs. An
indescribable odor of decaying plaster, chimney-soot and mildew hung
in the heavy air.

A door to the right, also half open, led the investigator further.
Here the floor shook ominously under foot, suggesting rotten beams
and unsteady sills. The minister walked cautiously, noting in passing
a portrait defaced with cobwebs over the marble mantelpiece and the
great circular window opening upon an expanse of tangled grass and
weeds, through which the sun streamed hot and yellow. Voices came
from an adjoining room; he could hear Deacon Whittle's nasal tones
upraised in fervid assertion.

"Yes, ma'am!" he was saying, "this house is a little out of repair,
you can see that fer yourself; but it's well built; couldn't be
better. A few hundred dollars expended here an' there'll make it as
good as new; in fact, I'll say better'n new! They don't put no such
material in houses nowadays. Why, this woodwork--doors, windows,
floors and all--is clear, white pine. You can't buy it today for no
price. Costs as much as m'hogany, come to figure it out. Yes,
_ma'am!_ the woodwork alone in this house is worth the price of one
of them little new shacks a builder'll run up in a couple of months.
And look at them mantelpieces, pure tombstone marble; and all carved
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