But I think it would sort
of rest me if Mr. Fromkin were to say a word, seeing that it's really
his funeral."
Abel Fromkin started nervously, and put his dead cigarette to his
lips. "I ain't much of a talker," he said, almost sheepishly. "Meyers,
he's got it down fine. I tell you what. I'll be in New York the
twenty-first. We can go over the books and papers and the whole
business. And I like you should know my wife. And I got a little girl
--Would you believe it, that child ain't more as a year old, and says
Papa and Mama like a actress!"
"Sure," put in Ed Meyers, disregarding the more intimate family
details. "You two get together and fix things up in shape; then you
can sign up and have it off your mind so you can enjoy the festive
Christmas season."
Emma McChesney had been gazing out of the window to where the street-
lamps were reflected in the ice-covered pavements. Now she spoke,
still staring out upon the wintry street.
Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling. And I haven't got it.
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