“Oh,” thought Scarlett, with the
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discount first feeling of real pleasure she had experienced since
the day of the barbecue, I’m going to like it here! It’s so alive and
exciting!”
The town was even more alive than she realized, for there
were new barrooms by the dozens; prostitutes, following the army, swarmed the
town and bawdy houses were blossoming with women to the consternation of the
church people. Every hotel, boarding house and private residence was crammed
with visitors who had come to be near wounded relatives in the big Atlanta
hospitals. There were parties and balls and
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with the grooms on furlough in bright gray and gold braid and the brides in
blockade-run finery, aisles of crossed swords, toasts drunk in blockaded
champagne and tearful farewells. Nightly the dark tree-lined streets resounded
with dancing feet, and from parlors tinkled pianos where soprano voices blended
with those of soldier guests in the pleasing melancholy of “The Bugles Sang
Truce” and “Your Letter Came, but Came Too Late”—plaintive ballads that brought
exciting tears to soft eyes which had
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As they
progressed down the street, through the sucking mud, Scarlett bubbled over with
questions and Peter answered them, pointing here and there with his whip, proud
to display his knowledge.
“Dat air de arsenal. Yas’m, dey keeps guns
an’ sech lak dar. No’m, dem air ain’ sto’s, dey’s blockade awfisses. Law, Miss
Scarlett, doan you know whut blockade awfisses is? Dey’s awfisses whar furriners
stays dat buy us Confedruts’ cotton an’ ship it outer Cha’ston and Wilmin’ton
an’ ship us back
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outlet gunpowder. No’m, Ah ain’ sho whut kine of furriners dey is.
Miss Pitty, she say dey is Inlish but kain nobody unnerstan a’ wud dey says.
Yas’m ‘tis pow’ful smoky an’ de soot jes’ ruinin’ Miss Pitty’s silk cuttins. If
frum de foun’ry an’ de rollin’ mills. An’ de noise dey meks at night! Kain
nobody sleep. No’m, Ah kain stop fer you ter look around. Ah done promise Miss
Pitty Ah bring you straight home. … Miss Scarlett, mek yo’ cu’tsy. Dar’s Miss
Merriwether an’ Miss
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Scarlett vaguely
remembered two ladies of those names who came from Atlanta to Tara to attend her
wedding and she remembered that they were Miss Pittypat’s best friends. So she
turned quickly where Uncle Peter pointed and bowed. The two were sitting in a
carriage outside a drygoods store. The proprietor and two clerks stood on the
sidewalk with armfuls of bolts of cotton cloth they had been displaying. Mrs.
Merriwether was a tall, stout woman and so tightly corseted that her bust
jutted
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like the prow of a ship. Her iron-gray hair was eked out by a curled false
fringe that was proudly brown and disdained to match the rest of her hair. She
had a round, highly colored face in which was combined good-natured shrewdness
and the habit of command. Mrs. Elsing was younger, a thin frail woman, who had
been a beauty, and about her there still clung a faded freshness, a dainty
imperious air.