The sun sets in the west (just about everyone knows that), but. Sunset Towers faced east. Strange! Sunset Towers faced east and had no towers. This glittery. Editorial Reviews. Review. A supersharp mystery Confoundingly clever, and very funny. Kindle Store; ›; Kindle eBooks; ›; Children's eBooks. Only two people hold all the clues- One of wm them is a Westing heir. The other is you! "The Westing Game is wonderful — pan mystery story, pan ptay-akmg.
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ENGLISH, AWARD WINNING CHILDREN'S BOOK. Read "The Westing Game (Puffin Modern Classics)" by Ellen Raskin available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. **A Newbery. This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is.
Sydelle Pulaski struggled out of the taxi, large end first. She was not a heavy woman, just wide-hipped from years of secretarial sitting. Her green rhinestone-studded glasses slipped down her fleshy nose as she grappled with a tall triangular package and a stuffed shopping bag. If only that lazy driver would lend her a hand.
The cabbie slammed the back door and sped around the curved driveway, narrowly missing the Mercedes that Sandy was driving to the parking lot. At least the never- there-when-you-need-him door- man had propped open the front door. Not that he ever helped her, or noticed her, for that matter. No one ever noticed. Sydelle Pulaski limped through the lobby. She could be carrying a high-powered rifle in that package and no one would notice.
She had moved to Sunset Towers hoping to meet elegant people, but no one had invited her in for so much as a cup of tea. Juggling her load, earrings jingling and charm bracelet jangling, Sydelle Pulaski unlocked the several locks to apartment 3C and bolted the door behind her.
But nobody listened. Nobody cared. On the plastic-covered dining table she set out the contents of the shopping bag: She unwrapped the long package and leaned four wooden crutches against the wall.
The sun was setting over the parking lot, but Sydelle Pulaski did not look out her back window. From the side window' smoke could be seen rising from the Westing house, but Sydelle Pulaski did not notice. Now they will. Except for her receding chin Turtle Wexler looked every inch the witch, her dark unbraided hair streaming wild in the wind from under her peaked hat, a putty wart pasted on her small beaked nose.
If only she could fly to the Westing house on a broomstick instead of scrambling over rocks on all fours, what with all she had to carry. Doug Hoo had already reached the top of the cliff and taken his station behind the maple on the lawn. The track star was chosen timekeeper because he could run faster than anyone in the state of Wiscon- sin. Turtle squinted into the blackness that lay within the open French doors. Open, as though someone or some Thing was expecting her.
Ghosts, like dogs, know when a person's scared. Ghosts or worse, Otis Amber had said. At two dollars a minute, twenty-five minutes would pay for a subscription to The Wall Street Journal. She could stay all night. She was prepared. Turtle checked her pockets: Turtle took a deep breath of chill night air and flinched with pain.
She was afraid of dentists, not ghosts or. Now, one- two — three — three and a half— GO! Doug checked his stopwatch. Nine minutes.
Ten minutes. Eleven minutes. Another scream, closer. The dead man was tucked in a four- poster bed. Maybe it was a dream. The moon was down, the window dark. Turtle lay in the narrow bed in her narrow room, waiting dark, still dark , waiting. At last slow morning crept up the cliff and raised the Westing house, the house of whis- pers, the house of death. Two dollars times twelve min- utes equals twenty-four dollars. The morning newspaper was flung against the front door.
Turtle tiptoed through the sleeping apartment to retrieve it and climbed back into bed, the dead man staring at her from the front page.
The face was younger; the short beard, darker; but it was he, all right. Sam Westing Found Dead Found? No one else knew about the bedded-down corpse except Doug, and he had not believed her. Then who found the body? The whisperer? Samuel W. Westing, the mysterious industri- alist who disappeared thirteen years ago, was found dead in his Westingtown mansion last night. He was sixty-five years old. From these meager beginnings he built the H20h 4 21 giant Westing Paper Products Corporation and founded the city of Westingtown to house his thousands of workers and their fam- ilies.
His estate is estimated to be worth over two hundred million dollars. Turtle read that again: When asked the secret of his success, the industrialist always replied: Yet he was a dedicated games- man and a master at chess.
Turtle had been in the game room. A great patriot, Samuel Westing was famous for his fun-filled Fourth of July cele- brations. Whether disguised as Ben Franklin or a lowly drummer boy, he always acted a role in the elaborately staged pageants which he wrote and directed. Perhaps best remem- bered was his surprise portrayal of Betsy Ross. Games and feasting followed the pageant, and at sunset Mr. Westing put on his Uncle Sam costume and set off fireworks from his front lawn. The spectacular pyrotechnic dis- play could be viewed thirty miles away.
His only daughter, Violet, drowned on the eve of her wedding, and two years later his troubled wife deserted their home. Al- though Mr. Westing obtained a divorce, he never remarried. Five years later he was sued by an inventor over rights to the disposable paper diaper. On his way to court Samuel Westing and his friend, Dr. Sidney Sikes, were involved in a near-fatal automobile accident. Both men w T ere hospitalized with severe injuries. Sikes resumed his Westingtown medical practice and the post of county coroner, but Westing disappeared from sight.
It was rumored, but never confirmed, that he controlled the vast Westing Paper Prod- ucts Corporation from a private island in the South Seas. He is still listed as chairman of the board. Turtle turned the page of the newspaper, but that was all. That was all? There was no mention of how the body was found. There was no mention of the envelope propped on the bedside table on which a shaky hand had scrawled: If I am found dead in bed. She had been edging her way against the four-poster, reading the w r ords in the beam of the flashlight, when she felt the hand, the waxy dead hand that lay on the red, white, and blue quilt.
Through her scream she had seen the white-bearded face. There was no mention of two suspicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the premises, or a flash- light, or a silver cross on a chain.
There was no mention of prowlers; no mention of anyone having seen a witch; no mention of footprints on the lawn: Old Mr. Westing probably died of a heart attack — or pneumonia — it was draft y in there.
Turtle hid the folded newspaper in her desk drawer, counted her black-and-blue marks in the mirror seven , dressed, and set out to find the four people who knew she had been in the Westing house last night: They owed her twenty-four dollars.
At noon the sixty- two -year-old delivery boy began his rounds. He had sixteen letters to deliver from E. Plum, Attorney-at-Law. Otis Amber knew what the letters said, because one was addressed to him: As a named beneficiary in the estate of Samuel W Westing your attendance is required in the south library of the Westing house tomorrow at 4 p.
It means position, like a job. Most receipts have that to make sure the right person gets the right letter. How many? How much? Madame Hoo marked an X and her husband filled in her name and position. Theo wanted to sign the receipt for his brother, but Chris insisted on doing it himself. Slowly, taking great pains, he wrote Christos Theodorakis , bird- watcher. By the time the sun had set behind the Sunset Towers parking lot, Otis Amber, deliverer, had com- pleted his rounds.
Her husband had refused to come, but no matter. Recalling family gossip about a rich uncle maybe it was a great-uncle— anyway, his name was Sam Grace had convinced herself that she was the rightful heir. Jake was Jewish, so he could not possibly be related to Samuel W. Turtle, where are you wandering off to now? The front door was opened by Crow.
Although the Sunset Towers cleaning woman always wore black, here it reminded Grace Wexler to dab at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. This was a house of mourning. The silent Crow helped Angela with her coat and nodded approval of her blue velvet dress with white collar and cuffs. She did not want to be taken for one of the poor relatives. Wexler took the chair to his right and motioned to her favorite. Angela sat down next to her mother, removed a trousseau towel from her large tapestry shoulder bag, and took up embroidering the monogram D.
Slumped in the third chair Turtle pre- tended she had never seen this paneled library with its bare and dusty shelves. Suddenly she sat up with a start.
An open coffin draped in bunting rested on a raised platform at the far corner of the room; in it lay the dead man, looking exactly as she had found him, except now he was dressed in the costume of Uncle Sam — including the tall hat.
Grace Wexler was too busy greeting the next heir to notice. He was still wearing his hospi- tal whites. I promise not to pull your braid. From there she could see everything except the coffin. Grace Wexler dismissed the next heir with an audible tongue click. The delivery boy shouted: Grace Windsor Wexler was no longer surprised at the odd assortment of heirs. Household workers, all, or former employees, she decided. The rich always reward servants in their wills, and her Uncle Sam was a gener- ous man.
Only the dressmaker rushed to his side. Some stared at the afflicted child with morbid fasci- nation, but most turned away. She must be here in some legal capacity, or maybe her mother was a household maid, but of one thing Grace was certain: Ford could no more be related to Samuel W.
Westing than Mr. Hoo asked, hoping to -i 28 H H 29 f- get back in time to watch the football game on televi- sion. Hoo had not noticed the open coffin.
Now he did. Wexler was called away on an emergency operation. Judge Ford had recognized E. Several months ago he had argued before her court, bumbling to the point of incompetence. Why, she wondered, was a young, inexperienced attorney chosen to handle an estate of such importance? Come to think of it, what was she doing here? Perhaps, but what about the rest of them, the other tenants of Sunset Towers? Light footsteps were heard in the hall. It was only Angela, who blushed and, hugging her tapestry bag close to her body, returned to her seat.
The heirs waited. Some chatted with neighbors, some looked up at the gilt ceiling, some studied the pattern of the Oriental rug. A calloused hand, a healed cut, the shiny slash of a burn on the deep bronze skin.
She lowered her hands to her lap. Thump, thump, thump. Someone was coming, or were there two of them? In came Crow. Eyes lowered, without a word, she sat down next to Otis Amber. A dark cloud passed from her face as she eased off a tight shoe under the table. The last expected heir arrived. Everyone was staring; she knew they would notice. Sydelle was pleased to hear someone come to her defense with a loud click of the tongue. She had not even blinked a false eyelash at those offensive remarks poise, they call it.
First she favored her left leg, then her right leg. I have verified the signatures to be those of Samuel W. Westing and his two witnesses: Julian R. Westing , resident of Westing County in the fair state of Wisconsin in the great and glorious United States of America , being of sound mind and memory , do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament. I came home to seek my heir, aware that in doing so l faced death. Tomorrow its ashes will be scattered to the four winds.
Westing, hereby swear that 1 did not die of natural causes. My life was taken from me — by one of you! His exaggerated motions acted out the confusion shared by all but one of rhe heirs as they looked around at the stunned faces of their neighbors to confirm what they heard.
Rereading her notes, Sydelle Pulaski now uttered a small shriek. Does that mean Westing was murdered? Crow turned away in silence. Of course it means murder. Hoo replied. And the will says the murderer is one of us. Plum shrugged. Westing was already embalmed; tomorrow' he would be cremated. The police are helpless. The culprit is far too cunning to be apprehended for this dastardly deed.
Cast out the sinner, let the guilty rise and confess. Help me. My soul shaJZ roam rest Jess until that one is found. The estate is at the crossroads. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the. You have made me , the son of poor immi- grants, rich , powerful , and respected, So take stock in America , my heirs, and sing in praise of this generous land.
What game? Sports equipment lined the walls. Hunting rifles, Ping-Pong paddles, billiard cues a full rack, Turtle noticed , bows and arrows, darts, bats, racquets — all looked like possible murder weapons to the jittery heirs who were waiting to be told where to sit.
Theo wandered over to the chess table to admire the finely carved pieces. Someone had moved a white H 36 f pawn. Theo defended the open- ing with a black knight. The rules are simple: If any player drops out, the partner must leave the game. The pair must return the money.
Each pair may then give one answer. The object of the game was to win, and she wanted to win. When called, go to the assigned table. Your name and position will be read as signed on the receipt. It will be up to the other p layers to discover who you really are.
Hoo did, but he was in no mood for humor; ten thousand dollars was at stake. Table one remained empty and moneyless. At least, her face was still puckered in that elfin grin. Turtle had hoped for one of the high- school seniors, especially Doug Hoo. He and his brother should be paired together; Chris was his responsibility. Wexler protested: Doctor D. Denton Deere protested, but silently: If this had been arranged for free medical advice, they who- ever they are were mistaken.
He was a busy man. He was a doctor, not a nursemaid. He would tell the intern about the person who limped into the Westing house; maybe that was the murderer — unless his partner was the murderer! This was really exciting, even better than television. Or could it? The judge did not return the chip' toothed smile. Doorman, he calls himself, and the others had signed simple things, too: She was no token; her record was faultless.
Five thousand dollars lost! Oh well, who needs Jake anyway? So what, thought Mr, Ho o. He should have told his wife about this meet- ing, dragged her along, Sam Westing, the louse, has cheated him again. Whoever killed him deserves a medal. Why were they watching her? Did they think she killed Windy? Could the guilty know her guilt?
Theo moved more slowly. Passing the chessboard he saw that white had made a second move. He countered with a black pawn. Maybe he should not have written brother, but like it or not, that was his position in life.
Chris was smiling at him in pure sweetness, which made Theo feel even guiltier about his resentment. At least her crippled partner could not be the murderer, but it was embarrassing being paired with such a It was her mother who was upset she could feel the indignant anger without having to look at Grace ; her perfect daughter was paired with a freak.
What good luck, the hobbling Sydelle Pulaski thought. Now she would really be noticed with such a pretty young thing for a partner. They might even invite her to the wedding. Denton Deere was troubled. Once again Edgar Jennings Plum cleared his throat. Chris giggled. The check cannot be cashed without the signa- tures of both partners.
May God thy gold refine. A piercing shriek suddenly reminded the Westing heirs of murder. No two sets of clues are alike. Placing the last of the envelopes on table eight, the young lawyer smiled at Angela. Sydelle Pulaski smiled back. Four clues typed on cut squares of Westing Super- strength Paper Towels lay on the table before him. Arms and elbows at odds, with fingers fanned, Chris tried to rearrange the words in some grammati- cal, if not logical, order.
Flora Baumbach leaped from her chair at the next table, picked up the square of paper and set it face down before the trembling youngster. The word she had seen was plain. The players protected their clues more carefully now.
Hunched over the tables, they moved the paper squares this way and that way, mumbling and grum- bling. At table eight Sydelle Pulaski placed one hand on the enve- lope, raised a finger to her lips and tilted her head toward the other heirs.
Just watch and listen, she meant. Since each pair had a different set of clues, they would watch and listen for clues to their clues.
Queen Crow and King Amber. Theo jabbed an elbow in his ribs and turned to see if anyone had heard. Angela lowered her eyes in time. Playing a pawn in this foolish game is one thing, but to be insulted with minstrel show dialect And my poor kids, ,. So many had begged before her bench. Words did hurt, but she was no longer a child.
Nor a hanging judge. And there was always the chance. McSouthers, Pll stay. She was concentrating. And what was Angela staring at? One by one she put the clues in her mouth, chewed and swallowed them.
Hoo muttered. Grace Windsor Wexler agreed. Plum, but what are these clues clues to? I mean, exactly what are we supposed to find? Wexler uttered a cry of recognition and changed the order of two of her clues.
Hoo complained. Other players pressed the lawyer for more informa- tion. Judge Ford began. He paused and tried again. My instructions specifically state that no heir is allowed to see any of the documents until the game is over. But wait, they did have a copy. A shorthand copy! Sydelle Pulaski had plenty of attention now. She smiled back at the friendly faces, revealing a lipstick stain on her front teeth. Death is sense- less yet makes way for the living.
So on with the game. The solution is simple if you know whom you are looking for. But heirs , beware! Be aware! Some are not who they say they are, and some are not who they seem to be. Whoever you are, it's time to go home.
God bless you all and remember this: download Westing Paper Products! The tenants of Sunset Towers awoke from clue-chasing, blood-dripping dreams, bound in twisted sheets and imprisoned by fifteen-foot snowdrifts.
No telephones. No electricity. Snowbound with a murderer! Each stripe bums exactly one- half hour, more or less. Twelve stripes, six hours. No matter. What was five dollars to heirs of an estate worth two hundred million?
Clues, they had to work on those clues. Behind closed doors. Whisper, someone may be listening. Not all the heirs were huddled in plotting, puzzle - solving pairs.
Jake Wexler had retreated to his office after a long and loud argument with his wife. The forfeited money upset her more than the murder of her uncle, if he was her uncle. No one had bothered to tell Madame Hoo about the Westing game. Other players were snowbound elsewhere: Denton Deere in the hospital, Sandy at home. No one gave a thought to where Otis Amber or Crow might be.
But Sydelle Pulaski was there, thumping her crutch against the baseboards as she limped through the car- peted halls on the arm of her pretty partner. Angela drinks it black. Poor Mr. I must hurry back for my medication. Come, Angela. Mind if I sit down? But at least Sydelle was talking to him, which was more than she was able to do.
Angela, the fortunate one, standing like a dummy. It was all right to ask her because she was going to marry his partner. Chris fanned the pages of the book to a picture of a wheat field.
You want to know the names of some grains. Sydelle was puffing her warm breath on the window and wiping a frosted area clean with her sleeve. Anything else we can do for you, young man?
One limped, but it was a pretended limp he could tell , not like the limper on the Westing house lawn. Chris closed his eyes to picture the clues: Chris raised his binoculars to the cliff.
Windblown drifts buttressed the house — something moved on the second floor — a hand holding back the edge of a drape. Slowly the heavy drape fell back against the window. The Westing house was snowbound , too, and somebody was snowbound in it. Only one of the players thought the clues told how the ten thousand-dollar check was to be spent. Take stock in America , the will said. I thought we were supposed to find the name of the murderer?
Her fingerprints were over everything in the Westing house, including the corpse. Do you? You know very well I could never think such a thing. I must have misunderstood. Still, it felt good having a child around again. I remember the will said May God tky gold refine. That must be from the Bible. All quotations were either from the Bible or Shakespeare, Mr.
Hoo moved aside a full ashtray with a show of dis- taste and rearranged the clues. She came over from Hong Kong two years ago. Why was he glaring at her like that? He had enough problems with the empty restaurant, a lazy son, and his nagging ulcer; now he has to put up with this bigot. Grace lit another cigarette and rearranged the clues to read: How about this: A niece murders her rich uncle to inherit his money? S-e-a means sea, like what a turtle swims in. Hoo, we are both being silly.
Have you spoken to your son about his clues? If you can catch him, you can ask him. Everybody orders up, nobody orders down. That coffee shop is sending me to the poorhouse.
Some pair they made: Attila the Hun and Gracie the useless. Gracie Windkloppel Wexler, heir pretender, pretentious heir. First, the money. Next, the clues: I think the pest is madly in love with me; how's that for luck?
His father's comment about awarding a medal to the murderer might be incriminating, Theo tried another tack. Well have to find out which one of the heirs plays chess. The will said no two sets of clues are alike. Maybe all the clues put together make one mes- sage, a message that points to the murderer.
Somehow or other well have to get the heirs to pool the clues.
The killer can't wait to hand over the clues that will hang him. Snowbound or not, he had to stay in shape for the track meet. For the rest of the day he jogged through the hallways and up and down stairs, scaring the nervous tenants half out of their wits. Judge J. Ford had no doubt that the clues she shared with the doorman were meant for her, but Sam Westing could toss off sharper insults than: A state- ment that named a name.
The name of the murderer. Westing could not have been murdered. If his life had been threatened, if he had been in danger of any kind, he would have insisted on police protection. He owned the police; he owned the whole town. Sam Westing was not the type to let himself get killed. Not unless he was insane. The judge opened the envelope given her by the incompetent Plum.
A certificate of sanity, dated last week: That sounded familiar. The judge scanned the obituary she had cut from Saturday's newspaper. Sikes was Westing's friend and, she remembered, a witness to the will , but he was also a physician in good standing. Back to the clues- Look at her, the big-time judge, fussing over scraps of Westing Superstrength Paper Towels.
Nibbling on a macaroon, she stacked the used coffee cups on a tray. If only that Pulaski person had let her study the will. In his will Sam Westing implied he did not state, he implied that 1 he was murdered, 2 the murder- er was one of the heirs, 3 he alone knew the name of the murderer, and 4 the name of the murderer was the answer to the game. The game: No mat- ter how much fear and suspicion he instilled in the players, Sam Westing knew that greed would keep them playing the game.
And punished. Sam Westing was not murdered, but one of his heirs was guilty — guilty of some offense against a relentless man. And that heir was in danger. From his grave Westing would stalk his enemy, and through his heirs he would wreak his revenge.
Which one? She would have to learn everything she could about each one of the heirs. Good, the telephones are working again. The num- ber she dialed was answered on the first ring. Just sing out your problem to old Barney here when you hear the beep. Ford hung up without singing out her problem to old Barney.
The newspaper, she would try the newspaper; surely someone was snowbound there. After eight rings, a live voice answered. Sam Westing was dead, but maybe, just once, she could beat him at his own game. His last game. She unsealed the envelope and held it out to Angela. Her thumb was covering the letter d. The word was hood. The third clue was from. The fourth clue was spacious.
The fifth and last clue was— Angela uttered a low moan. Her hand shook as she passed the paper to her partner. The fifth and last clue was grace. The will says: Sydelle assumed that meant no and turned to the clues. Good gracious from hood space. As soon as the parking lot is shoveled out, well peek under the hoods of all the care.
A map or more clues may be hidden there. Maybe even the murder weapon. Mother switched two clues around when Sandy mentioned those words. Doug and Theo could not decide whether that clue was right side up or upside down.
Chris Theodorakis thinks that clue refers to Otis Amber. You know, grains — oats. She is not following any stock with a symbol like MT, so it must be one of her clues.
Her partner was beautiful, but not dumb. Nothing makes sense without a verb. What about the judge? And she had a clipping of the obituary on her desk. This obituary. It was footsteps in the living room. It was Theo. The words two hundred million dollars were underlined, but she found a more interesting item.
Do you know anything about the game, Angela? Maybe the murderer is a twin. The only problem would be getting the murderer to admit that he or she is a twin. Sydelle chuckled at her timidity. She had slammed it shut on leaving, but had not locked the dead bolt; after all, not even a burglar could get into a snowbound building. Angela, too frightened to notice that Sydelle ran through the apartment with her crutch in the air, found her partner in the bathroom frantically tossing soiled towels from the hamper.
Sydelle Pulaski stared at the bare wicker bottom, then sank to the rim of the bathtub, shaking her head in disbelief. Someone in Sunset Towers had stolen the shorthand notebook. Important business papers of no value to anyone but the owner. Please return to Sydelle Pulaski, No questions asked. The shorthand notebook was not returned, but the idea of a bulletin board was an instant success. By late afternoon the elevator was papered with notices and filled with tenants facing sideways and backwards, reading as they rode up and down.
Siller cross on filigree chain , topaz pin and earrings, gold-filled cufflinks. Return to Grace Windsor Wexler , 3D. Six Clues The following clues , printed on squares of Westing Toilet Tissue, were found in the third floor hallway: You are all invited.
Please come. On reading Mrs. Always smiling that dumb smile, always so polite to everybody. And so timid. When they had finally reached a snowbound broker, Flora Baumbach was so nervous she dropped the telephone. She had not done that with such care in a long, long time. Her mother was so warm, so close. It was Doug Hoo, not Theo, who had made the sign.
She should have known. Beaming on her favorite, Grace took her hand, then gasped. Sydelle Pulaski appeared in the doorway. Grace ignored the complaint. Her large hoop earrings were also black and white: They were to appear in identical costumes; tonight was the night they would discover if one of the heirs was a twin. Grace tried again, her voice dripping with honey You know, of course, that if I do win the inheritance, everything I own goes to Angela.
Judge Ford was instructing Theo in the art of bartend- ing when the telephone rang. The snowbound news- paperman had found several items in the files. Denton Deere. Hoo waddled in with a large tray of appetizers.
The judge pointed him to the serv- ing buffet and apologized to her caller. He claimed Westing stole his idea of the disposable paper diaper.
Your wife and son, too. He hated parties. He had seen his fill of people eating and drinking and acting like clowns, jabbering like Seems he runs a pretty fast mile for a high-school kid.
The party was about to begin. A firm handshake, laugh lines around his eyes. He needed a sense of humor with that social-climbing wife. You must come see what Ive done with it. Three bedrooms do seem rather spacious for a single woman.
This is a one-bedroom apartment. How am I related? The party went on and on. No one dared be first to leave. Safety in numbers, especially with a judge there. So the guests ate and drank and jabbered; and they watched the other guests eat and drink and jab- ber. No one laughed.
Hoo replied glumly. Deciding that his wife had found the perfect part- ner, the podiatrist moved on to the two women stand- ing in silence at the front window. Why did they ask about Denton all the time, as though she was nobody without him?
It was more than that, it was everything. Jake turned to Madame Hoo. Jake followed her pointing finger. Lots and lots of snow. Lake Michigan. Because she might do the wrong thing and annoy her mother. Angela-the-obedient-daughter did only what her mother told her to do.
One of these tidbits might cheer you up. Some of us prefer the professional life, though I must say, if a handsome young doctor like Denton Deere proposed to me, I might just change my mind. You shouldn't let your mother boss you like that; you're a grown woman, about to be married. George Theodorakis placed his hand on the shoul- der of his invalid son. A large, bronze, hard-working hand. Theo resembled him in many ways: His troubled eyes stared across the room at Angela.
Catherine Theodorakis, a slight, careworn woman, gazed down on her younger son with tired, dark-circled eyes. From his wheelchair Chris watched legs. Other than the funny lady with the shorthand notes, the only limpers were his brother Theo Turtle had kicked him again and Mrs.
Wexler, who stood on one leg rubbing her stockinged foot against her calf. A high- heeled shoe stood alone on the carpet beneath her. George Theodorakis greeted Mr. Theo must think the Westing game has something to do with chess. He may be right, it certainly is as complicated as a chess game. How long have you been in the restaurant business?
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