"Fine." Isabel rolled her morsel under her tongue; then, when Phebe's attention was distracted, she furtively threw it down back of the fence. "I believe I like 'em better this way than I do cooked." This addition was strictly true, for Isabel never touched turnips at home.
"I want another." Phebe jumped down and helped herself to two more turnips, carefully choosing the largest and best, and ruthlessly sacrificing a half-dozen more in the process. "Here, Isabel, take your pick."
Isabel held out her hand, hesitated, then, with a radiant smile of generosity, ostentatiously helped herself to the smaller. But Phebe held firmly to its bunch of green leaves.
"No, take the other, Isabel," she urged.
"I'd rather leave it for you."
"But I want you to have it."
"And I want you to take it."
"I've got ever so many more at home."
"So've I."
Reluctantly Phebe yielded her hold, and Isabel took the smaller one and rubbed the earth away, before biting it.