As the young woman rattled on she grew more and more glib; she was what they call whopper-jawed, and spoke a language almost purely consonantal, cutting and clipping her words with a rapid play of her whopper-jaw till there was nothing but the bare bones left of them. Statira was crying, and Lemuel could not bear to see her cry. He tried to say something to comfort her, but all he could think of was, “I hope you'll get your book back,” and 'Manda Grier answered for her——
“Oh, I guess 't ain't the book 't she cares for. S' far forth 's the book goes, I guess she can afford to buy another book, well enough. B't I tell her she's done 'n awful thing, and a thing 't she'll carry to her grave 'th her, 'n't she'll remember to her dyin' day. That's what I tell her.”
“She ha'n't got any call to feel bad about it,” said Lemuel clumsily. “It was just a mistake.” Then, not knowing what more to say, he said, being come to the outer door by this time, “Well, I wish you good morning.”
“Well, good morning,” said 'Manda Grier, and she thrust her elbow sharply into Statira Dudley's side, so that she also said faintly—
“Well, good morning!” She was fluent enough on the witness-stand and in the police station, but now she could not find a word to say.
The three stood together on the threshold of the court-house, not knowing how to get away from one another.
'Manda Grier put out her hand to Lemuel. He took it, and, “Well, good morning,” he said again.
“Well, good morning,” repeated 'Manda Grier.
Then Statira put out her hand, and she and Lemuel shook hands, and said together, “Well, good morning,” and on these terms of high civility they parted. He went one way and they another. He did not look back, but the two girls, marching off with locked arms and flying tongues, when they came to the corner, turned to look back. They both turned inward, and so bumped their heads together.
“Why, you—coot!” cried 'Manda Grier, and they broke out laughing.