The small mouth was full of rebellion.
“Um mad!”
“Oh—sorry. What about?”
Defiantly
“Um mad. And the Choolies are mad—they're mad—they're mad—”
Oliver looked at her a moment but was much too wise to smile.
“They aren't mad at you, but they're mad at Motha and Aunt Elsie and Ro and Dickie and oh—evvabody!” Jane Ellen stated graciously.
“Well, as long as they aren't mad at me—Any letters for me, Jane Ellen?” “Yash.”
Oliver found them on the desk, looked them over, once, twice. A letter from Peter Piper. Two advertisements. A letter with a French stamp. Nothing from Nancy.
He went out on the porch again to read his letters, to the accompaniment of Jane Ellen's untirable chant. “The Choolies are mad” buzzed in his ears, “The Choolies, the Choolies are mad.” For a moment he saw the Choolies; they were all women like Mrs. Ellicott but they stood up in front of him taller than the sky and one of them had hidden Nancy away in her black silk pocket—put her somewhere, where he never would see her again.