“Well?”
“Write.”
“What?”
“Write.”
“Why?”
“Because I fear we intrude.”
“Intrude?” Harold Weathercock exclaimed, coming up. “I assure you it’s a treat....”
Mrs. Sixsmith threw a sidelong, intriguing glance across her shoulder.
“Who’s the cure in plaits?” she demanded.
“It’s Little May Mant—she’s seeing her sister home.”