“Have you been long in England?”
“Few months.”
“And what do you think of it?”
Here was a question that was easy enough to answer.
“I guess it’s a cute little country, but it ain’t big enough for a man to breathe in. There’s no wind, no sunshine. And the people are as cold as the climate.”
Angela laughed.
“So we are cold?”
“Oysters. I came the hul way from Devonshire to London in a train with another guy—man. ’Good-morning,’ says I. ’Good-morning,’ says he—and that’s all there was to it. It beats me, this frostiness—ain’t natural.”
Angela winced at the speech. The mutilated Anglo-Saxon caused her almost physical pain, yet the voice was musical enough and deep as a bassoon.
“All you Americans say the same thing.”