Rhoda.
I have been searching for something.
Littlefield.
What was it?
Rhoda.
My own lost self. My own—lost soul.
Littlefield.
Amused at her solemnity.
You're a queer bundle of goods. Always were. Head full of solemn notions about life, and at the same time, when it came to a lark,—Oh, I'm no grandmother, but when you got on your high horse—well!
He waves his hands expressively.