She told me stories; and one was pretty good, of a relative of hers, or somebody's--I should say, a century old, but she told it with a becoming air of appropriation that made it family history, for she's come down in the world, and this fellow had a stain of red upon him, and wanted cleaning; and, "What!" says the good father, "Mika! you did it in cold blood ?" And says Mika, "Not I, your Riverence.
I got myself into a passion 'fore I let loose." I believe she smoked this identical pipe.

She acknowledged the merits of my whisky, as poets do hearing fine verses, never clapping hands, but with the expressiveness of grave absorption.

That's the way to make good things a part of you.

She was a treat.

I got her out and off at midnight, rosy Mary sneaking her down, and the old girl quiet as a mouse for the fun's sake.