“Let him wait a minute,” said Barclay, finishing a letter.
“I do ’ate that man, Jo-si-ah—that I do,” said Mrs Barclay.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk so, old lady, when I’m writing.”
“I can’t help it, Jo-si-ah. That man, whenever I meet him, makes me begin to boil. So smooth, and polite, and smiling, and squeeze-your-handy, while all the while he’s laughing at you for being so fat.”
“Laughing at me for being so fat?”
“No, no. You know what I mean—laughing at me myself for being so fat. I ’ate him.”
“Well, I don’t want you to love him, old lady.”
“I should think not, indeed, with his nasty dark eyes and his long black mustarchers. Ugh! the monster. I ’ate him.”
“Handsomest man in Saltinville, my dear.”
“Handsome is as handsome does, Jo-si-ah. He’s a black-hearted one, if ever there was one, I know.”