Crimm's husband for thirty
years and has his first drink to take.
As I played the opening notes of "Molly, My Darling, There's No One
Like You," Mr. Crimm took his place by the piano. Straight and
important, shoulders back, and a fat right hand laid over a fat left
one, both of which rested just above the belt around his
well-developed waist, he surveyed the silent company with blinking,
twinkling eyes. Mrs. Crimm, struggling between righteous pride in
the possession of so handsome a piece of property as her
blue-uniformed and brass-buttoned husband, and the necessity of
subduing all emotions save that of respect, due to the recent death
of her brother, sat upright in her chair, hands clasped in her lap,
and eyes fastened on the floor. Not until the song was over did she
lift them.
"Molly, My Darling, There's No One Like You" is a piece of music
permitting the making of strange sounds, and when Mr. Crimm sings it
the sounds are stranger. At the third verse he asked all present to
join in the chorus, and the effect was transforming. Bettina,
standing in front of him, eyes uplifted as if entranced, and hands
clasped tightly behind her back, was ready at the first word to join
in, and shrilly her young voice piped an accompaniment to the deep
notes of her official friend.
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