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Tarkington, Booth, 1869-1946

"The Turmoil, a novel"

Nice room."
He led the way, and Bibbs followed slowly, stopping at intervals to
rest, and noting a heavy increase in the staff of service since the
exodus from the "old" house. Maids and scrubwomen were at work under
the patently nominal direction of another Pullman porter, who was
profoundly enjoying his own affectation of being harassed with care.
"Ev'ything got look spick an' span fo' the big doin's to-night,"
Bibbs's guide explained, chuckling. "Yessuh, we got big doin's
to-night! Big doin's!"
The room to which he conducted his lagging charge was furnished
in every particular like a room in a new hotel; and Bibbs found it
pleasant--though, indeed, any room with a good bed would have seemed
pleasant to him after his journey. He stretched himself flat
immediately, and having replied "Not now" to the attendant's offer
to unpack the bag, closed his eyes wearily.
White-jacket, racially sympathetic, lowered the window-shades and made
an exit on tiptoe, encountering the other white-jacket--the harassed
overseer--in the hall without. Said the emerging one: "He mighty
shaky, Mist' Jackson. Drop right down an' shet his eyes. Eyelids all
black.


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