"Isn't there ever something makes you do things you know aren't the things to do ?" "Oh, dear me, yes," laughed Kate.

"But you're simply your own worst enemy when you try to get ahead of the heat." "I don't know how you're going to help being your own worst enemy," Ann murmured.
She picked some leaves from the vines and threw them away, purposelessly; she made the cat get out of a chair and sat down in it herself, only to get up again and pile all the magazines in a different way, not facilitating anything by the change.

Then, after walking the length of the veranda, she stood there looking at Katie: Katie in the coolest and coolest-looking of summer dresses, leaning back in a cool-looking chair--adjusting herself to things as they were, poised, victorious in her submission.
Then Ann said a strange thing.

"A hot day's just nothing but a hot day to you, is it ?" The words themselves said less than the laugh which followed them--a laugh which carried both envy and resentment, which at once admired and accused, a laugh straight from the girl they were trying to ignore.
And pray what was a hot day to her, Katie wondered.

What _was_ a hot day--save a hot day?
But as she watched Ann in the next few moments she seemed to be surveying a figure oppressed less by heat than by that to which the heat laid her open.