“How would you like it,” she suddenly demands, “if I went around town like these English women—burning churches and houses of Parliament and cutting up fine oil paintings. How would that suit your grouchy highness?”
“This is not England,” I answer shortly. “That sort of thing would never do with us.”
“My, but isn’t he the fierce old Ruggums!” she cries in affected alarm to the now half-suffocated nipper.
Once more I take up the Declaration of Independence. It lends itself rather well to reciting. I feel that my voice is going to carry.