“And an eleven-foot jump,” I suggested.
“Why, there's no more a 'Bill Hammersley,'” she cried, with a gesture of excited emphasis, “than there is a 'Simpledoria'!”
“So it appears,” I agreed.
“He's lived there all alone,” she said, solemnly, “in that big house, so long, just sitting there evening after evening all by himself, never going out, never reading anything, not even thinking; but just sitting and sitting and sitting and SITTING—Well,” she broke off, suddenly, shook the frown from her forehead, and made me the offer of a dazzling smile, “there's no use bothering one's own head about it.”
“I'm glad to have a fellow-witness,” I said. “It's so eerie I might have concluded there was something the matter with ME.”
“You're going to your work?” she asked, as I turned toward the gate. “I'm very glad I don't have to go to mine.”
“Yours?” I inquired, rather blankly.
“I teach algebra and plain geometry at the High School,” said this surprising young woman. “Thank Heaven, it's Saturday! I'm reading Les Miserables for the seventh time, and I'm going to have a real ORGY over Gervaise and the barricade this afternoon!”