Most Bewildering Exacting 7 Letters
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Most Bewildering Exacting 7 Letters
Mrs. Kennedy rose from her knees, wringing out the dirty, dripping rag in her hand, and looked back with a sigh over the stairs she had just cleaned.
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Then he went down to the cellar, pail in hand, and kicked open the door of his apartment—three little black rooms with latticed windows above the mushroom, where great ashtrays stood, and where cats and tradesmen whistled. through bags and bottles. A small stream of gas flickered in the passageway as he swung the heavy bucket into the kitchen, his feet into the dirty water.
He turned on the gas and looked around. There were breakfast dishes in the sink; and over the tin lids of the wash-tubs many tendrils scurried about. All this troubled her greatly, for she was a good housewife, and a perfectly neat little body; but he knew he was innocent. It couldn’t be helped.
As the janitor of this Harlem tenement, he was allowed to live rent-free in exchange for certain services, and his honor was drawn. He had to maintain the appearance of the place. He had to wipe the stairs, the corridors, the lobby to clean the windows on five floors. He also had to sweep the empty apartments and show them to anyone who came to look.
After this was over, he still had a life to live. He did full-time and part-time “power-ups”; he washed the house to do at night; he did all the dirty and unpleasant work that even the dilapidated tenants of this dilapidated house could not do for themselves. There were many days when he left early in the morning and could not come back in until dark. It put him in a terrible mood to return home in such disarray and terrible confusion. This thought haunted him all day while he was working.
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It was later than the clock, but he had to rest for a minute. He sat down and closed his eyes. He could not truly rest until he was tired and refreshed; the best he could hope for was a little rest from his labors.
She was a thin woman with infinite patience; he may suffer for all; but his gaunt, hollow face, his dull eyes, bore witness to the cost of his terrible and heroic struggle. Although he was forty, he looked sixty. It had a blurry look, like a half-erased picture. It looked really worn out, it was thin, some of it was missing.
“O Lord!” he sighed again. “First, I’ll make a cup of tea, then I’ll run to the corner and grab something for Angelica’s dinner.”
The tea had a good effect on him. He felt warm and comforted and reluctant to work harder. Then he put a scarf on his head and hurried to the windy March Street, to a small corner shop.
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It was warm and bright, there were people to talk to, and the young man was tempted to stay long in a place that was so pleasing to him. Despite the fact that she bought little, she was his favorite, because she was a simple woman who never went to any trouble and always took advice before going to the store. But, as usual, he sighed a little, pulled himself together, wished the guy good night and hurried back home.
Eighth Avenue, with its neat little shops where even the very poor or the very careless gathered to buy their last-minute dinners, looked festive and attractive to him. He didn’t go out much; it didn’t even have a window overlooking the street. He thought it would be nice to take an after-dinner walk with Angelica, to look in the window to see what the fruit vendor had to offer, to look at the suction display in the five-and-ten-cent store; but he was sure that Angelica could not be driven to such a thing. He demanded better!
It was the effect of Angelica’s demands that drove the weary Mrs. Kennedy forward. If she doesn’t have the good stuff, Angelica will rearrange and remake it until it suits her. He didn’t complain much, but wasn’t he demanding! His mother used to say it like a man. He will never be satisfied with a cup of tea and a little something you left from the previous day. There should be plenty of variety, as well as a clean cloth.
He was nimble and nimble when he came home; but she was not yet ready, the bell rang three times, only by way of announcement, for the door was always open, and into the kitchen came her daughter, Angelica, her only child.
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Angelica was not considered beautiful by her peers because the quality of her beauty was not obvious. He looked at it, looked at it, wanted it very much; He was often followed in the street; but none of these admirers would call her beautiful. There was “something about him,” that was all there was—something irresistible. He himself understood only a little about it. She knew very well that she was attractive, that she had some kind of magic that attracted men. She knew by some instinct how to use her charms, but he didn’t understand or appreciate it. She looked at him with a satisfied and curious interest. A pale, narrow face with strange black eyes, not at all like it; a rich, scornfully twisted mouth; the mysterious, charming languor of the old Italian Madonna—a curious languor like a sleepy panther; and with this curious and touching beauty passed the most impudent, speech, and gesture of careful play. Then there was his gait, the excessive flexibility of his lean young body, the craggy tilt of his broad-brimmed hat, the movement of his hem, and the strange, blasphemously naive malice that combined with that wonderful face.
It was this boldness, this gamous passion that he thought was his charm. He did not recognize her poetry, the wonderful delicacy of her face. His mother had only a vague and formless idea about it. He saw something rare and heartbreaking in his son, robbing him of any dignity he had.
“No!” Angelica said sarcastically. “Bacon? That’s good. Nice and crispy, Mom. No, I’m not tired, just a little sore.”
She sat down at the table, her chin in her hand, her brow furrowed, and she waited in that mood that her mother knew so well and feared. He put the plates on the table and waited, too nervous to eat. He saw that Angelica had something on her mind and that there would be no peace until she got rid of it.
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“My Gaut, mother! I’m so sick! I’ve been sitting at that machine all day and every day. And these girls and trees! Let’s blame it so much, mother! I don’t know, I thought. I think I can do better elsewhere.”
“They’re all the same, I think they’re factories. I don’t see how it would benefit you to change so often, Angelica. All girls are the same; if you can’t get into one of them. big stores, and they don’t pay anywhere near as much.”
“What’s the good of it? It’s just as bad. No, mother, I want something else. Oh, mother, I want something out of life!”
His mother looked at him silently. He understood it perfectly. Wasn’t he, long ago, restless, hungry for life, forever in search of something new? Of course, it’s not in a foreign and sharp way. He had never been able to speak harshly and loudly as a child; but although their features, gestures, and intonation were not the same, they had the same indomitable spirit.
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“I know!” he said. “It’s hard—horribly hard; but it’s worse if you’re fighting it all the time. People like us don’t stand a chance, and we can’t stand it.