"Did it—was it—was it ever hard to swallow, Jeanette?"
"To swallow?"
"Yes. I mean—did you ever dream or—think—or feel so frightened you couldn't swallow?"
"I felt lots of ways, but that wasn't one of them. Swallow! Who ever heard of not swallowing?"
"But didn't you ever dream, Jeanette—terrible things—such terrible things—and get to thinking and couldn't stop yourself? Silly, ghostly—things."
Jeanette put down her sewing.
"Ann, are you quizzing me about—your mother?"
"My mother? Why my mother? Jeanette, what do you mean? Why do you ask me a thing like that? What has my mother got to do with it? Jeanette!"
Conscious that she had erred, Jeanette veered carefully back.
"Why, nothing, only I remember mamma telling me when I was just a kiddie how your mamma used to—to imagine all sorts of things just to pass the time away while she embroidered the loveliest pieces. You're like her, mamma used to say—a handy little body. Poor mamma, to think she had to be taken before Truman, junior, was born! Ah me!"