“Do you mean that, Mrs. Murphy?” I asked, every bit of blood in me goin' on the jump.
“Mean it?” she says; “I've had six of my own, and not one of them could hold a candle to this one.”
“Marthy!” I says. “Is it so?”
“Mrs. Murphy has fine children,” she says; “but my little girl, I think, is finer.”
“How's her head?” I asked. “Perfect,” she says.
“And her color?”
“So healthy,” she says.