"Well, not precisely. Grannie's unknown God, I guess it is. Unknown to me!"
"Why do you say we must brush our hair?"
He laughed a little, yet soberly.
"I read it in a novel, the other day. There were two young women talking together while they brushed their hair. Then I thought of yours and how it must hang down your back like a golden fleece."
"That's in Shakespeare."
"It's in me, too. A golden mane, then."
"Do you like novels?" Suddenly she had back her absorbing curiosity over him.
"Not much. I haven't read many."
"Why?"
"It's best not. They make me discontented. Seed catalogues are better."