"Oh, you better not do that. It's sticky and you might get a spot on your Sunday clothes."
His Sunday clothes!
Elisha came to himself.
He rose up.
"I oughtn't to be eatin', anyhow," he called after Marcia as she retreated into the pantry. "You see, I come here this mornin' to—"
"I guess a nice hot apple turnover won't go amiss no matter what you came for," interrupted the woman, returning with the plate, fork and cheese.
With deftness she whisked the triangle of flaky pastry onto the plate and extended it toward her guest.
Its warm, insidious perfume was too much for Elisha.
He sat down with the plate in his lap.