"As a woman, or a buyer?"
T. A. Junior thought a minute. "As a woman."
Mrs. McChesney thoughtfully regarded the tips of her neatly gloved
hands. Then she looked up. "The kindest and gentlest thing I can say
about her is that if she'd let her hair grow out gray maybe her face
wouldn't look so hard."
T. A. Junior flung himself back in his chair and threw back his head
and laughed at the ceiling.
Then, "How old is your son?" with disconcerting suddenness.
"Jock's scandalously near eighteen." In her quick mind Emma McChesney
was piecing odds and ends together, and shaping the whole to fit Fat
Ed Meyers. A little righteous anger was rising within her.
T. A. Junior searched her face with his glowing eyes.
"Does my father know that you have a young man son? Queer you never
mentioned it.
"Queer? Maybe. Also, I don't remember ever having mentioned what
church my folks belonged to, or where I was born, or whether I like my
steak rare or medium, or what my maiden name was, or the size of my
shoes, or whether I take my coffee with or without.
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