We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
C1.B309H3
Vol. VIII
Y.T&1
magazine
No. 10
r
QDCEOa 1
NOV., 1914
The Wi
le warning
(Majestic) This story was written from the Photoplay of RUSSELL E. SMITH
Dorothy dried the dishes her mother handed her, warm from the suds, with vicious little jerks. Her pretty forehead was wrinkled ominously, her eyes were mutinous.
1 ' If it 's that city feller you 're sulkin ' over, Dotty, you might 's well save your temper," adjured her mother, untactfully. "He dont mean any good by you. Should think a girl as smart as you might know that. You read stories enough and see plays enough, land knows!"
Dorothy accepted a dish fastidiously and eyed her parent in ill-concealed pity. "It's because I am so smart, mother," she reproved, "that I know a real man when I see one. I have simply been wasting my life, and I might have wasted it entirely if I had listened to these — these country fellows — and had not met Mr. Crisp."
"I married one o' your 'country fellers'," bristled Mrs. Price, "an' I dont see's my life's wasted."
"Our ideas are different, mother; that's all. What is pleasure to you is slavery to me. I'm meant for other spheres; as Mr. Crisp says, 'born to play another role. ' We can never become reconciled in our thoughts, I
29
fear — you and I." She piled the dishes, disdainfully, and the Jook in her eyes was realistically Ibsenesque.
' ' Humph ! ' ' grunted Mrs. Price, whose vocabulary did not extend into melodrama.
"I'm going out to the hammock," vouchsafed Dorothy, the last dish absently dried; "if Donald — Mr. Crisp, you know — calls, just tell him I'm having my afternoon 'syesta'."
Out in the hammock the frown on the pretty brow deepened. Over her head an apple-tree was bursting into bloom, and now and then a snowy, scented petal fluttered in her face. Across the fields a wild clover breathed its fragrant tale. The skies were unbearably blue. Heaven itself might have opened and poured its stores of sweetness divinely forth — one soul at least would have been adamantine. To the half-awakened girl in the hammock only one thing mattered — the joy of the life Donald Crisp had painted for her. He had put into her senses the throb of the lighted ways ; the urge of crowds ; the lure of silk-clad women who did nothing but wear brilliant jewels, loll in velvet-lined motors and astonish a wondering world with their altogether superhuman exquisiteness. He