"Who?" snapped Mrs. Handsomebody.
"Lucy—" repeated The Seraph. "Such a sweet-tempud gell."
Mrs. Handsomebody leaned over him, and gobbled and threatened. The Seraph preserved a remarkable calm, considering that he was the storm centre. He even raised his small forefinger before his face and looked at it thoughtfully. His speculative gaze travelled from it to Mrs. Handsomebody's chin. I perceived then that he was comparing warts!
[Chapter IV: A Merry Interlude]
I
My brothers and I were hanging over the gate that barred our way to the outer world, and singing, as loudly as we could, considering the pressure of the top bar on our young stomachs. We sang to keep warm, for Mrs. Handsomebody had decreed that no reefers were to be worn till the first of December. So, though November was raw, she maintained her discipline and refused to mollycoddle us.
It was the fifth, and Angel chanted in that flute-like treble of his, that made passersby turn and smile at him:
"Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot—"
Then The Seraph added his little pipe: