“Wing, you rascal, I’d like to choke you.” Frank was still sputtering.
Wing assumed a mournful expression. “Me velly sorry–nobody touch, samee you say.”
It was the second of April before the last rattle of wheels died away down the lane.
“Well, Mother, I think it paid for the trouble,” said Dr. Morton, as they were starting homeward, his arms laden with chairs.
“Yes, I guess, perhaps, I have been inclined to stand too much aloof. That little Mrs. Anderson is really a cultured woman. She comes from Maine. I asked her to come and spend the day Tuesday.”
Marian’s comment was brief.
“Frank, I am dead, but I’m glad we did it.”
“So am I–put out the light.” Frank was already half asleep.