Mrs. Sinquier shuddered.
“Those scandalous topsies that entrap our missionaries!” she said.
“In Oshkosh—”
“Don’t, Mike. The horrors that go on in certain places, I’m sure no one would believe.”
Miss Sinquier caressed lightly the Canon’s cheek.
“Soothed?” she asked.
“... Fairly.”
“When I think of those coloured coons,” Mrs. Sinquier went on, “at the Palace fête last year! Roaming all night in the Close.... And when I went to look out next day there stood an old mulattress holding up the baker’s boy in the lane.”
“There, Mary!”
“Tired, dear?”