“Here are the apples, Aunt Grenertsen. Aren’t they beauties?”
“And where are the rest?”
“Why—these are all.”
“From the whole tree? Eight apples?”
“Well, some were half-rotten, and you said yourself that we might eat”—
“I said no such thing,” interrupted Aunt Grenertsen.
Johnny Blossom blinked his eyes and scarcely knew what to say, but suddenly had an idea. He would begin differently.
“But those that were bruised you said we might eat, and we have done that,” said Johnny Blossom, frankly and virtuously.
“Indeed! You have done that, have you? Well—it looks as if they had all got bruised.”
“Oh no, Aunt Grenertsen. Six of them are not bruised at all, and these two only the least bit.”