“You needn’t tell me anything about him,” said Imogen Graham, in her deep voice, and giving her mannish choker a tug. “I despise men—in fact nothing—nothing—disgusts me like a man!” Any one of the group might have completed the sentence for her; they had all heard it so often.
“He’s done something famous,” Flora Macdonald MacMillan shrieked.
“He’s made a lot of money,” Anabeth Pelham-Hew called, pushing her head into Rosamond’s ken under Imogen Graham’s elbow. Anabeth was short, and Dr. Wells said her hair had grown thin on the top from scraping against her taller sisters’ angles in order to thrust herself into notice.
“A lot of money,” Anabel, her twin, echoed.
“A lot—a lot of money!” Justinia Pelham-Hew stuttered.
“Oh, yes! he’s made a lot of money.” Constanza Pelham-Hew came in with the longer repetition—the whole line—exactly as if the thing were a glee and she were concluding the first round.
“Oh! isn’t it interesting?” Maravene Pelham-Hew trebled, taking up the second verse.
“Yes! isn’t it interesting?”
“Oh! so interesting!”
Claribel and Berthalin Pelham-Hew generally expressed their view in duet form.