Miller. "I'm sorry for you. It's an unspeakable loss, isn't it?"
Grant. "Awful! She was the best woman that ever lived."
Miller. "She was, indeed. I never met her equal. She was a good wife to me."
Grant. "I was referring to my wife. There couldn't be two best, you know."
Miller. "Yes, I know. I know well enough that your wife couldn't hold a candle to mine."
Grant. "She couldn't, hey? Couldn't hold a candle! Why, she could dance all round Mrs. Miller every day in the week, including Sundays, and not half try! She was an unmitigated angel, take her any way you would."
Miller. "Oh! she was, was she? Well, I don't want to be personal; but if I owned a cross-eyed angel with red hair and no teeth, and as bony as an omnibus-horse, I'd kill her if she didn't die of her own accord. Dance!—how could a woman dance that had feet like candle-boxes, and lame at that?"
Grant. "Better be cross-eyed than wear the kind of a red nose that your wife flourished around this community. I bet it'll burn a hole through the coffin-lid. And you pretend you're sorry she's gone. But you can't impose on me: I know you're so glad you can hardly hold in. She was the chuckle-headedest woman that ever disgraced a graveyard: that's what she was."
Miller. "If you abuse my wife, I'll knock you down."