white linen suit. Simple and graceful, it added to her appearance of innocence. Plain dark green was another favorite color. A plain gold crucifix attached to a thin chain about her throat was her only jewelry.
From her childhood she had the gift of keeping conversation alive. A constant reader of newspapers, she knew all that was current about leading personalities. She had the manner of one who had always lived in the city.
Alice Tracy was a lithe brunette, slightly taller than Leora. More beautiful than her mother, she had Red Moll’s passion for wearing red. In contrast to her vivid taste and coloring she wore her hair severely combed back and tied with a wide ribbon. This accentuated her girlish appearance. She seldom wore jewelry. Her movements were as quick and graceful as her mother’s.
Alice had many adventures after leaving home. Like all pretty women she had fought different battles in the war of sex. They had ended in victory, defeat, and surrender, according to the opposing side.
She had left the boat at Louisville to join a carnival company that played across Indiana.
Unlike Leora, she was oversexed. From being “man-crazy” at fifteen, she now blended cunning with desire, and was, as a result, much less a feather in emotional storms.
She had early been the plaything of men who came to her mother’s house. Seduced soon after puberty without romance, she accepted without concern.
From then on, she was only miserable when not sharing her body with several men.
She found her way to Mother Rosenbloom as naturally as her native Ohio River flowed to the sea.
After four months at Mother Rosenbloom’s house, she was placed in an apartment by a manufacturer of tires. Over seventy, apoplectic, and a widower, he had been a caller at Mother Rosenbloom’s establishment for many years.
Mother Rosenbloom, under the name of Mrs. Maurice Thorndyke, had direct connection with his home and private office.
She had studied Alice for a month before suggesting her to adorn an apartment for J. Whitlau Everlan.
Mother Rosenbloom assured Alice of the high honor bestowed, and how, with tact, she could line her nest with gold.
“It will be easy to live with Mr. Everlan,” she explained. “You will have none of the cares of a wife and none of the physical violence of living with a younger man. If you do not like the touch of so old a man, you must consider that at least it is less heavy and will leave you with fewer bruises. Though I’m a woman, I feel that most women are silly as geese and less important. And the poor things would mate with eagles. All of this comes from reading romantic novels. It’s been my observation, Alice dear, in a life that’s already too long, that the more a woman is like a man, the greater she is. And you must realize that even though you are young and beautiful now, it will not last forever. If Mr. Everlan makes a good tire he’s entitled to his profit. If he treats you well and gives you an allowance of a thousand dollars a month, he is entitled to obedience and respect. If he should find pleasure in the arms of another girl, you must allow the poor man that—for very soon he’ll be dead, and then what? If you are clever you will make yourself so agreeable that you can bind him with an invisible chain that’s stronger than steel. If he brings you a toy from the ten-cent store you must be thrilled beyond words. I read a great deal when I was younger, and there was a woman in France who was a whore at heart—she slept with everything—but she held Napoleon—and I remember how the poor man went into her room after she was in her grave, and when he came out he’d been crying.
“She flattered him and petted him; she could read him to sleep—I don’t know the answer, neither did Napoleon, but the bitch had no fear. Until she was thirty she was the perfect whore. If anyone asks me what it got her, I can ask them right back what sleeping alone got St. Cecilia.”
Alice was never
From her childhood she had the gift of keeping conversation alive. A constant reader of newspapers, she knew all that was current about leading personalities. She had the manner of one who had always lived in the city.
Alice Tracy was a lithe brunette, slightly taller than Leora. More beautiful than her mother, she had Red Moll’s passion for wearing red. In contrast to her vivid taste and coloring she wore her hair severely combed back and tied with a wide ribbon. This accentuated her girlish appearance. She seldom wore jewelry. Her movements were as quick and graceful as her mother’s.
Alice had many adventures after leaving home. Like all pretty women she had fought different battles in the war of sex. They had ended in victory, defeat, and surrender, according to the opposing side.
She had left the boat at Louisville to join a carnival company that played across Indiana.
Unlike Leora, she was oversexed. From being “man-crazy” at fifteen, she now blended cunning with desire, and was, as a result, much less a feather in emotional storms.
She had early been the plaything of men who came to her mother’s house. Seduced soon after puberty without romance, she accepted without concern.
From then on, she was only miserable when not sharing her body with several men.
She found her way to Mother Rosenbloom as naturally as her native Ohio River flowed to the sea.
After four months at Mother Rosenbloom’s house, she was placed in an apartment by a manufacturer of tires. Over seventy, apoplectic, and a widower, he had been a caller at Mother Rosenbloom’s establishment for many years.
Mother Rosenbloom, under the name of Mrs. Maurice Thorndyke, had direct connection with his home and private office.
She had studied Alice for a month before suggesting her to adorn an apartment for J. Whitlau Everlan.
Mother Rosenbloom assured Alice of the high honor bestowed, and how, with tact, she could line her nest with gold.
“It will be easy to live with Mr. Everlan,” she explained. “You will have none of the cares of a wife and none of the physical violence of living with a younger man. If you do not like the touch of so old a man, you must consider that at least it is less heavy and will leave you with fewer bruises. Though I’m a woman, I feel that most women are silly as geese and less important. And the poor things would mate with eagles. All of this comes from reading romantic novels. It’s been my observation, Alice dear, in a life that’s already too long, that the more a woman is like a man, the greater she is. And you must realize that even though you are young and beautiful now, it will not last forever. If Mr. Everlan makes a good tire he’s entitled to his profit. If he treats you well and gives you an allowance of a thousand dollars a month, he is entitled to obedience and respect. If he should find pleasure in the arms of another girl, you must allow the poor man that—for very soon he’ll be dead, and then what? If you are clever you will make yourself so agreeable that you can bind him with an invisible chain that’s stronger than steel. If he brings you a toy from the ten-cent store you must be thrilled beyond words. I read a great deal when I was younger, and there was a woman in France who was a whore at heart—she slept with everything—but she held Napoleon—and I remember how the poor man went into her room after she was in her grave, and when he came out he’d been crying.
“She flattered him and petted him; she could read him to sleep—I don’t know the answer, neither did Napoleon, but the bitch had no fear. Until she was thirty she was the perfect whore. If anyone asks me what it got her, I can ask them right back what sleeping alone got St. Cecilia.”
Alice was never
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