And look at his clothes!
That tie! And his pants! And that awful collar!
Why, his very features look German, don't they? I suppose
it's the effect of that haberdashery."
A month after the photograph, came a letter announcing his
marriage. Fanny's quick eye, leaping ahead from line to
line, took in the facts that her mind seemed unable to
grasp. Her name was Olga Stumpf. (In the midst of her
horror some imp in Fanny's brain said that her hands would
be red, and thick, with a name like that.) An orphan. She
sang. One of the Vienna concert halls, but so different
from the other girls. And he was so happy. And he hated to
ask them for it, but if they could cable a hundred or so.
That would help. And here was her picture.
And there was her picture. One of the so-called vivacious
type of Viennese of the lower class, smiling a conscious
smile, her hair elaborately waved and dressed, her figure
high-busted, narrow-waisted; earrings, chains, bracelets.
You knew that she used a heavy scent. She was older than
Theodore.
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