A.
Buck Featherloom products variety. They'll be wearing 'em long after
knickerbockers have been cut up for patchwork."
The moody look was quite absent from T. A. Buck's face now, and the
troubled look from Emma McChesney's eyes.
"Well," Buck said grudgingly, "if you were to advise making up a line
of the latest models in deep-sea divers' uniforms, I suppose I'd give
in. But flannel nightgowns! In the twentieth century--flannel night--"
"Think it over," laughed Emma McChesney as he opened the door. "We'll
have it out, tooth and nail, when you get back."
The door closed upon him. Emma McChesney and her son were left alone
in their new home to be.
"Turn out the light, son," said Emma McChesney, "and come to the
window. There's a view! Worth the money, alone."
Jock switched off the light. "D' you know, Blonde, I shouldn't wonder
if old T. A.'s sweetish on you," he said as he came over to the
window.
"Old!"
"He's forty or over, isn't he?"
"Son, do you realize your charming mother's thirty-nine?"
"Oh, you! That's different.
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