"You like it here, Mother?"
"Well, it isn't like being in one's own home. And of course they do serve lambchops without the paper frills," she complained. "I suppose it's all right, but I must say they look rather naked."
"But you're all right otherwise?"
"My eyes bother me, there's something wrong with the lights. The food hurts my gums and I'm short of breath and I never can seem to get comfortable clothes that aren't dowdy. And the newspapers are full of horrors—"
"Yes, yes," he interrupted impatiently. "But they treat you well, don't they?"
She put down her knitting. "It depends entirely what you mean by that, Almon. If your poor father had lived no one would ever have hustled me around the way they do here."
"Are they rude to you, Mother?"
"They certainly don't act as I should expect persons to act toward a lady."
"They don't—they don't ... handle you roughly?"
"My dear boy! What a question. They wouldn't dare."