“Um-hm. She knows. Anyhow, she knows I'm goin' somewheres. She told me to go herself.”
“She did! Why?”
“Don't ask ME. I was all ready to wash the windows; had the bucket pumped full and everything. But when I come into the dinin'-room she sung out to know what I was doin' with all that water on her clean floor. 'Why, Dorindy!' I says, 'I'm a-goin' to wash them windows same's you told me to.' 'No, you ain't,' says she. 'But what will I do?' says I. 'I don't care,' says she. 'Clear out of here, that's all.' 'But where'll I clear out to?' I wanted to know. 'I don't care!' she snaps again, savage as a settin' hen, 'so long's you clear out of my sight.' So here I be. Don't ask me why she changed her mind: I don't know. Nothin' you want to the store?”
“No.”
“Say, Ros, you know what I think?”
“Far be it from me to presume to guess your thoughts, Lute.”
“Well, I think this is a strange world and the strangest thing in it is a woman. You never can tell what they'll do ten minutes at a stretch. I—”
“All right, Lute. I'll hear the rest of the philosophy later.”
“Philosophy or not, it's the livin' truth. And when you're as old as I be you'll know it.”
I went in through the dining-room, steering clear of Dorinda, who scarcely looked up from her floor scrubbing.