"I'm a psycho—psycho—whatever—it—is case," Peggy said. "I'll be all right when I have had most of what's under there."
"It's a giant's grave full of clams and oysters and ice-cream and potato salud and pumpkin pie," Madget elucidated in a sing-song voice, "and I am going to have some of all of it."
"Doesn't leave much room for the giant, does it, Madget?" Tom said, "but you are right about having some of all of it. We have a nice New York guy coming pretty soon. I asked him specially for you, Elizabeth. I know you have a warm spot in your heart for anybody that lives around Grant's Tomb."
"Is he your cousin?" Elizabeth said.
"No, he's just a fellow I see around the town sometimes. We hit it off pretty well, and he doesn't know many people."
"What's his name?"
"Stoddard, Robert Stoddard."
"Where does he live?"
"New York City, New York State, Manhattan Island."