"And now I must really--a little food
perhaps"--and he escapes before either Oliver or Peter has time to argue
the question. Oliver turns to Peter.
"Look here, Pete, if I'm--"
"You're not. Oh _I'd_ think it'd be a lot more sensible of Father to let
you take him in, but you never can tell about Father. Something must be up,
though, in spite of what he says--he's supposed to be on a vacation and
I haven't seen him look the way he does tonight since some of the tight
squeezes in the war."
XXXVI
It all started by having too much Mrs. Winters at a time, Nancy decided
later. Mrs. Winters went down with comparative painlessness in homeopathic
doses but Mrs. Winters day in and day out was too much like being forcibly
fed with thick raspberry syrup. And then there had been walking up the
Avenue from the Library alone the evening before--and remembering walks
with Oliver--and coming across that copy of the "Shropshire Lad" in Mrs.
Winters' bookcase and thinking just how Oliver's voice had sounded when he
read it aloud to her--a process of some difficulty, she recalled, because
he had tried to read with an arm around her.
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