Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
F
<div class="poem">
<p>"No, you won't, sweetheart, 'cause why? 'Cause what'll I do to you<br />
afterwards?"
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Beyond was her first butte, its sharp-cut sides glittering yellow, and she fancied that on it the Sioux scout still sat sentinel, erect on his pony, the feather bonnet down his back.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Seems to be. She's kind of demanding. She wanted a little car of her own, but I didn't think she could keep up with me, not on a long hike."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>He caught up Vere de Vere, rubbed her fur against his cheek while he mourned, "Oh, puss, you got to be nice to me. I thought I'd do big things. And then the alarm clock went off. I'm back in Schoenstrom. For keeps, I guess. I didn't know I had feelings that could get hurt like this. Thought I had a rhinoceros hide. But—— Oh, it isn't just feeling ashamed over being a fool. It's that—— Won't ever see her again. Not once. Way I saw her through the window, at that hotel, in that blue silky dress—that funny long line of buttons, and her throat. Never have dinner—lunch—with her by the road——"
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>"Oh, I know! I'm so ashamed! So bitterly ashamed! I just meant—— Will you forgive me? You were so good, taking care of us——"
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>In front of the Royal Palace, Pictures, 4 Great Acts Vaudeville 4, was browsing a small, beetle-like, tin-covered car.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Mr. Boltwood caught her enthusiasm. Dinner was a festival, and in iced tea the peaceful conquistadores drank the toast of the new Spanish Main; and afterward, arm in arm, went chattering to the movies.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>"The only reasonable thing to be offended at in this vale of tears is not being offered money!"
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Don't you worry about him, dolly. He's a very energetic chap. And—— Uh—— Mightn't we drive on a little farther, perhaps? I confess that the thought of our recent guest still in this vicinity——"
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>The car backfired, slowed. She yanked the gear from third into first. She sped up. The motor ran like a terrified pounding heart, while the car crept on by inches through filthy mud that stretched ahead of her without relief.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Claire was aware that a woman whom she had not noticed—so much smaller than the dumplings, so much less vigorous than the salt pork was she—was speaking: "<i>Aber</i>, papa, dot's a shame you sharge de poor young lady dot, when she drive by <i>sei</i> self. Vot she t'ink of de Sherman people?"
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Just the same—— Oh dear, I'm so tired. But good little Claire will climb out and be diplomatic."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Yes. I think perhaps it's better to avoid complications."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>"Lord!" he cried. "I didn't know there were books like these! Thought poetry was all like Longfellow and Byron. Old boys. Europe. And rhymed bellyachin' about hard luck. But these books—they're me." Very carefully: "No; they're I! And she gave 'em to me! I will see her again! But she won't know it. Now be sensible, son! What do you expect? Oh—nothing. I'll just go on, and sneak in one more glimpse of her to take back with me where I belong."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>No singer after a first concert has felt more triumphant than Claire when she crossed her first state-line; rumbled over the bridge across the Red River into North Dakota. To see Dakota car licenses everywhere, instead of Minnesota, was like the sensation of street signs in a new language. And when she found a good hotel in Fargo and had a real bath, she felt that by her own efforts she had earned the right to enjoy it.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>Then was the rough relieved in his uneasy tender little heart, and his eyes flickered again as he shouted back, not looking at Milt, "Thanks, bub, I'll stick by me friends."
</p>
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