"Well, that's enough about it—" interposed the lady.
"A plain old pine breakfast table—" continued Fitz.
"I'd stop, just there—" scowlingly said Mrs. Fitz.
"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard—" persevered the indefatigable monster.
"I'd go through the whole inventory—" angrily cried Mrs. Fitz—"clean down to—"
"The few broken pots, pans, and dishes we had—"
"Don't you—don't you feel ashamed of yourself?" exclaims Mrs. Fitz, about as full of anger as she could well contain; but Fitz keeps the even tenor of his way.
"Not at all, my dear; Heaven forbid that I should ever forget a jot of the real happiness of any portion of my life. When you and I, dear Sook (an awful scowl, and a sudden change of her position, on her costly rocking chair. Fitz looked askance at Mrs. Fitz, and proceeded); when you and I, Susan, lived in Dowdy's little eight by ten 'blue frame,' down in Pigginsborough; not a yard of carpet, or piece of mahogany, or silver, or silk, or satin, or flummery of any sort, the five old chairs—"
"Good conscience! are you going to have that over again?" cries Mrs. Fitz, with the utmost chagrin.
"The old white pine table—"