” “My Mom complains that she’s tired all the time. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. ‘Precisely. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room. Clergymen were human. ” “And you?” “Rather!” “I wonder why?” “There’s no why. "Rot, weren't they?" "No. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye.
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