"Anyway, the Simon Legree thing has
gone out."
No one in the plant had ever dared to talk to him like that.
He would glare down at Fanny for a moment, like a mastiff on
a terrier. Fanny, seeing his face rage-red, would flash him
a cheerful and impudent smile. The anger, fading slowly,
gave way to another look, so that admiration and resentment
mingled for a moment.
"Lucky for you you're not a man."
"I wish I were."
"I'm glad you're not."
Not a very thrilling conversation for those of you who are
seeking heartthrobs.
In May Fanny made her first trip to Europe for the firm. It
was a sudden plan. Instantly Theodore leaped to her mind
and she was startled at the tumult she felt at the thought
of seeing him and his child. The baby, a girl, was more
than a year old. Her business, a matter of two weeks,
perhaps, was all in Berlin and Paris, but she cabled
Theodore that she would come to them in Munich, if only for
a day or two. She had very little curiosity about the woman
Theodore had married. The memory of that first photograph
of hers, befrizzed, bejeweled, and asmirk, had never effaced
itself.
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