"Come now,—you've found counterfeit money among it,—there's been a bad quarter, a shady greenback?"
"No, Micah, there hasn't."
"Then what do you mean by treating me so?"
"Micah," she said, trembling more violently, "I don't know what you mean."
"Ain't you getting old?" he inquired, lashing himself into a yet more violent passion.
"I don't know,—yes, I suppose so."
"Ain't I getting old? Look at the gray hairs creeping in my head. Look at the tracks of the old crow. Does it stand to reason that my appetite's what it used to be?"
"I haven't noticed any difference, Micah."
"Haven't you?" he exclaimed, in violent sarcasm. "You think I can eat cold meat, cold potatoes, and porridge just like I used to twenty years ago? You've brought me up on it, and you think I can stay on it."
"I—I never thought about it, Micah."