“But he is of the best quality,” Deb quickly defended him; and was silent for a moment, thinking about Richard. She adored the boy; was content to know that she came first with him, though he rarely saw her, and still more rarely spoke to her except in the ordinary way of younger-brother teasing.
“Aunt Stella, Richard isn’t so stodgy as he likes to think he is,” she said suddenly. “Do you know, twice I’ve seen him nearly hysterical.”
“My child, you’re dreaming.”
“I’m not. Once was because a wasp was circling over his plate, and wouldn’t go away. And the other time was over a book.”
“Dear me, what book?”
But Deb was sorry now she had spoken so impulsively. Stella Marcus had a disconcerting way of making every subject seem as a hollow ball with a tinkle inside, to be lightly tossed, twice, thrice, and then let fall ... to roll away.
“What book?”
“‘A Tale of Two Cities.’”
“Oh, every little boy cries over that.”