"Where are the boys?" "In the hall. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. I’m afraid I’m a terribly clumsy fellow.
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