"My little mother was an ailer too."
"That's me, Mr. Latz. Not sick--just ailing. I always say that it's
ridiculous that a woman in such perfect health as I am should be such a
sufferer."
"Same with her and her joints."
"Why, I can outdo Alma when it comes to dancing down in the grill with
the young people of an evening, or shopping."
"More like sisters than any mother and daughter I ever saw."
"Mother and daughter, but which is which from the back, some of my
friends put it," said Mrs. Samstag, not without a curve to her voice,
then hastily: "But the best child, Mr. Latz. The best that ever lived.
A regular little mother to me in my spells."
"Nice girl, Alma."
"It snowed so the day of--my husband's funeral. Why, do you know that up
to then I never had an attack of neuralgia in my life. Didn't even know
what a headache was. That long drive. That windy hill-top with two men
to keep me from jumping into the grave after him. Ask Alma. That's how I
care when I care. But of course, as the saying is, time heals. But
that's how I got my first attack. Intenseness is what the doctors called
it. I'm terribly intense."
"I--guess when a woman like you--cares like--you--cared, it's not much
use hoping you would ever--care again. That's about the way of it, ain't
it?"
If he had known it, there was something about his own intensity of
expression to inspire mirth.
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