Polly’s glasses adorned the top of her head. This was significant. When she had arrived at any definite conclusion she pushed her spectacles away as though her physical vision and her spiritual were one and the same.
“Time, Polly?” Peter yawned.
“Going on to ’leven.”
“He come in?”
Full well Peter knew that he had not!
“No, Peter, and his evening meal is drying up in the oven––I had creamed oysters, too. Creamed oysters are his specials.”
“Scandalous, your goings on with this young man!” Peter sat up and stretched. Then he smiled at his sister.
“Well, Peter, all my life I’ve had to take snatches and scraps out of other folks’ lives when I could get them; and I declare I’ve managed to patch together a real Lady’s Delight-pattern sort of quilt to huddle under when I’m cold and tired.”
“Tired now, Polly?”
“Not exactly tired, brother, but sort of rigid. Feel as if I was braced for something. I’ve often had that feeling.”