Ptomaine Street by Carolyn Wells
page 90 of 113 (79%)
page 90 of 113 (79%)
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overwhelming sea of blue, pure and singing, and a moment later dropped into
pale amethyst which in turn deepens to a threatening purple then plunges you into a turmoil of passionate red, always and constantly swirling and whirling and twisting and untwisting, gliding, approaching and retreating in that haunted and inexplicable color space-- There was more--much more--but at this point Warble rose, made a comprehensive, all-embracing and very outspoken face at them and went down to the pantry. "It's no use--" she groaned, "perpetual waste motion--and now waste color! What to do--what to do! "Yet I must reform them somehow. That Iva Payne! Like a pure, pale lily--but I bet her soul has got its rubbers on! Lotta Munn--spinster in name only--with her foolish pleasures and palaces--Daisy Snow, little innocent-making saucer eyes at my husband--oh, Bill, dear, I love you so-- I wish I was pale and peaked and wise and--yes, and artistic! So there now! "Well, there's only two alternatives. I must reform this toy town, or be dragged down to their terrible depths myself! "Aunt Dressie says, love and grow thin. I surely love Bill enough, but if he doesn't love me--maybe I'd better try somebody else. It's done here. "But not Trymie Icanspoon! No, he makes me sick. I guess I'll eat pickles." * * * * * In the pantry she found the under scullery maid screaming with an earache. |
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