TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
“The father of the fat little boy?” he asked. “His parents must have been pretty anxious about him, I guess.”
Mrs. Trent hesitated, then said in a low, impressive tone. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” She raised her scant eyebrows and pursed her lips.
Mr. Burns hitched his chair nearer and leaned forward.
“Do you mean to say as they wasn’t frettin’ any too much?” he asked.
“Well, of course it ain’t for me to judge, but they’re kind of flighty, you might say. He did go an’ telephone, but—well, we all has our own way of showin’ our feelin’s, an’ I must say theirs ain’t mine.”
“Quite a young couple, did you say?”
The widow blushed painfully and unexpectedly.
“Tain’t for me to talk about my lodgers
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