Ten o'clock came. Mr. and Mrs. Bingle sat side by side in front of the
fireplace, her hand in his. The floor was littered with white tissue
paper, red ribbons, peanut hulls and other by-products of festivity;
the rugs were scuffled up and hopelessly awry; chairs were out of
their accustomed places--two or three of them no longer stood upon
their legs as upright chairs should do--and the hearth was strewn with
coals from an overturned scuttle. Candle grease solidified on the
mantelpiece and dripped unseen upon the mahogany bookcase--all
unnoticed by the dreamy, desolate Bingles. They were alone with the
annual wreck. Melissa and the five Sykeses were out in the bitter
night, on their frolicksome way to the distant home of the woman who
had so many children she didn't know what to do for them, not with
them. They had gone away with their hands and pockets full, and their
stomachs, too, and they had all been kissed and hugged and invited to
come again without fail a year from that very night.
Mr. Bingle sighed. Neither had spoken for many minutes after the
elevator door slammed behind the excited, shrill-voiced children.
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