Nancy Watson always felt a little lonesome when it rained. She had never mentioned it, but she could not help wishing there was a shelter over the little grave on the edge of the barley-field.
The Face of the Poor
Mr. Anthony attached a memorandum to the letter he was reading, and put his hand on the bell.
"Confound them!" he said under his breath, "what do they think I'm made of!"
A negro opened the door, and came into the room with exaggerated decorum.
"Rufus, take this to Mr. Whitwell, and tell him to get the answer off at once. Is any one waiting?"
"Yes, suh, several. One man's been there some time. Says his name's Busson, suh."