A HARLEM TRAGEDY
HARLEM.
Mrs. Fink has dropped into Mrs. Cassidy’s flat one flight below.
“Ain’t it a beaut?” said Mrs. Cassidy.
She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see. One eye was nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around it. Her lip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-marks on each side of her neck.
“My husband wouldn’t ever think of doing that to me,” said Mrs. Fink, concealing her envy.
“I wouldn’t have a man,” declared Mrs. Cassidy, “that didn’t beat me up at least once a week. Shows he thinks something of you. Say! but that last dose Jack gave me wasn’t no homeopathic one. I can see stars yet. But he’ll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of the week to make up for it. This eye is good for theater tickets and a silk shirt waist at the very least.”
“I should hope,” said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, “that Mr. Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.”
“Oh, go on, Maggie!” said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing
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