_Mr. Warrington:_ My Daughter!
_Nelly:_ Father, I have something to tell you; something--
Breakfast at Mrs. Arty's was always an inspiration. In contrast
to the lonely dingy meal at the Hustler Dairy Lunch of his Zapp
days, he sat next to a trimly shirtwaisted Nelly, fresh and
enthusiastic after nine hours' sleep. So much for ordinary
days. But Sunday morning--that was paradise! The oil-stove
glowed and purred like a large tin pussy cat; it toasted their
legs into dreamy comfort, while they methodically stuffed
themselves with toast and waffles and coffee. Nelly and he
always felt gently superior to Tom Poppins, who would be
a-sleeping late, as they talked of the joy of not having to go
to the office, of approaching Christmas, and of the superiority
of Upton's Grove and Parthenon.
This morning was to be Mr. Wrenn's first attendance at church
with Nelly. The previous time they had planned to go, Mr. Wrenn
had spent Sunday morning in unreligious fervor at the Chelsea
Dental Parlors with a young man in a white jacket instead of at
church with Nelly.
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