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Regarded by many critics as the greatest novel on urban life ever composed, Sister Carrie tells the story of Caroline Meeber, an 18-year-old from rural Wisconsin whose new life in Chicago takes her on an astonishing journey from the despairing depths of industrial labor to the staggering heists of fame and stardom. Representing the transition from the heavy moralizing of the Victorian era to the realism of modern literature, Sister Carrie remains a literary milestone that examines the human condition and all its flaws.
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A pleasant side to his nature came out here. He was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped up in his offspring. “Now, now,” he said, walking. “There, there,” and there was a certain Swedish accent noticeable in his voice. “You’ll want to see the city first, won’t you?” said Minnie, when they were eating. “Well, we’ll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park.” Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to be thinking of something else. “Well,” she said, “I think
narrowly grazed Hurstwood’s head. Another shattered the window behind. “Throw open your lever,” yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the handle himself. Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses. “That————hit me in the neck,” said one of the officers. “I gave him a good crack for it, though.” “I think I must have left spots on some of them,” said the other. “I know that big guy that called us a————,” said the first. “I’ll get him yet for
to the sweeping winds and rain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long, blinking lines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. Narrow board walks extended out, passing here a house, and there a store, at far intervals, eventually ending on the open prairie. In the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping district, to which the uninformed seeker for work usually drifted. It was a characteristic of Chicago then, and one not generally shared by other cities, that individual
believe I’ll stay in comedy so very much longer,” she eventually remarked to Lola. “Oh, why not?” said the latter. “I think,” she said, “I can do better in a serious play.” “What put that idea in your head?” “Oh, nothing,” she answered; “I’ve always thought so.” Still, she did nothing—grieving. It was a long way to this better thing—or seemed so—and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity and longing. CHAPTER XLVII THE WAY OF THE BEATEN: A HARP IN THE WIND IN THE CITY, AT that