Wait! wait! My hands are all greasy.
Mrs Buchner (to Augusta, who is warming herself at the stove).
There now! Aren’t you better already?—Was the Christmas party nice?
Augusta.
Nothing will take me there again!—Stuffy—no air—hot enough to make you faint!
Mrs Buchner.
Did the minister speak well?
Augusta.
I know one thing; if I were poor, I’d have been off after the great man’s speech.—I’d have flung all their beggarly trash back in their faces.