“Josiah Allen’s wife you can’t imagine what new and glorious and soaring ideahs that man has got into his head.”
“Let him soar,” says I coldly, “it don’t hurt me.”
Says she, “He is too soaring a soul to be into this cold unsympathizing earth, he ought by good right to be in a warmeh speah.”
Says I coldly, and almost frigidly, “From what I have heard of his lecture I think so too, a good deal warmer.”
Says she, “He was to our house yesterday, he said he felt dreadful drawed to me, a kind of a holy drawing you know, I neveh saw such a saintly, heavenly minded man in my life. Why he got into such a spirutal state—when motheh went out of the room a minute—he kissed me moah than a dozen times; that man is moah than half a angel, Josiah Allen’s wife.”
I gave her a look that pierced like sheet lightnin’ through her tow frizzles and went as much as half through her brain.
“Haint Theron Gusher a married man?”
“Oh yes, some.”
“Some!” I repeated in a cold accent, “He is either married or he haint married one or the other,” and again I repeated coldly “is he a married man Betsey?”