So Sam, somewhat scared, sauntered slowly, shaking stupendously. Sam soliloquizes: “Sophia Sophronia Spriggs—Spriggs—Samuel Short’s spouse—sounds splendid. Suppose she should say—shoo? She shan’t! She shan’t!”
Soon Sam spied Sophia starching shirts, singing softly. Seeing Sam, she stopped starching, saluted Sam smilingly. Sam stammered shockingly: “Spl-spl-splendid summer season, Sophia.”
“Somewhat sultry,” suggested Sophia.
“Sar-sartin, Sophia,” said Sam! (Silence seventeen seconds.)
“Selling saddles, still, Sam?”
“Sartin,” said Sam, starting suddenly. “Season’s somewhat sudorific,” said Sam, stealthily staunching sweat, shaking sensibly.
“Sartin,” said Sophia, significantly. “Sip some sherbert, Sam?” (Silence sixty seconds.)
“Sire shot sixty sheldrakes, Saturday,” said Sophia.
“Sixty? sho!” said Sam. (Silence seventy seconds.)
“See Sister Susan’s sunflowers,” said Sophia, sociably scattering such stiff silence.