"Teddy!" She hugged him close, her face buried in his
shoulder. "Teddy, you--you Spitzbube you!" She laughed
at that, a little hysterically. "Not that I know what a
Spitzbube is, but it's the Germanest word I can think of."
That shaven head. Those trousers. That linen. The awful
boots. The tie! "Oh, Teddy, and you're the Germanest thing
I ever saw." She kissed him again, rapturously.
He kissed her, too, wordlessly at first. They moved aside a
little, out of the crowd. Then he spoke for the first time.
"God! I'm glad to see you, Fanny." There was tragedy, not
profanation in his voice. His hand gripped hers. He
turned, and now, for the first time, Fanny saw that at his
elbow stood a buxom, peasant woman, evidently a nurse, and
in her arms a child. A child with Molly Brandeis' mouth,
and Ferdinand Brandeis' forehead, and Fanny Brandeis' eyes,
and Theodore Brandeis' roseleaf skin, and over, and above
all these, weaving in and out through the whole, an
expression or cast--a vague, undefinable thing which we call
a resemblance--that could only have come from the woman of
the picture, Theodore Brandeis' wife, Olga.
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