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Additional resources for Dawn O' Hara - The Girl Who Laughed
Milkman! Say, Mr. " with frantic beckonings. He turns. He lifts up his voice. "The screen door was locked so I left youse yer milk on top of the ice-box on the back porch. " I explain about the cream, adding that it is wanted for short-cake. The explanation does not seem to cheer him. He appears to be a very gloomy and reserved milkman. I fancy that he is in the habit of indulging in a little airy persiflage with Frieda o' mornings, and he finds me a poor substitute for her red-cheeked comeliness.
And my pocketbook is empty. Last week Max sent money for the care of Peter. He and Norah think that I do not know. Von Gerhard was here in August. I told him that all my firm resolutions to forsake newspaperdom forever were slipping away, one by one. "I have heard of the fascination of the newspaper office," he said, in his understanding way. " "Heimweh! That's the word," I had agreed. "After you have been a newspaper writer for seven years--and loved it--you will be a newspaper writer, at heart and by instinct at least, until you die.
Dad had chuckled and said that it was a curse descended upon me from the terrible old Kitty O'Hara, the only old maid in the history of the O'Haras, and famed in her day for a caustic tongue and a venomed pen. Dad and Mother--what a pair of children they had been! The very dissimilarity of their natures had been a bond between them. Dad, light-hearted, whimsical, care-free, improvident; Mother, gravely sweet, anxious-browed, trying to teach economy to the handsome Irish husband who, descendant of a long and royal line of spendthrift ancestors, would have none of it.