"Hear it, my dear." He simulated miser's joy.
"Ain't that music? Talk of operas! Hear that; don't it talk? don't it chink? don't it sing?" He groaned "Oh, Lord!" and fell back.
This transition from a state of intensest rapture to the depths of pain alarmed her.
"Nothing; it's nothing." Anthony anticipated her inquiries. "They bags is so heavy."
"Then why do you carry them about?"
"Perhaps it's heart disease," said Anthony, and grinned, for he knew the soundness of his health.
"You are very pale, uncle."
"Eh? you don't say that?"
"You are awfully white, dear uncle."
"I'll look in the glass," said Anthony. "No, I won't." He sank back in his chair. "Rhoda, we're all sinners, ain't we? All—every man and woman of us, and baby, too. That's a comfort; yes, it is a comfort. It's a tremendous comfort—shuts mouths. I know what you're going to say—some bigger sinners than others. If they're sorry for it, though, what then? They can repent, can't they?"