once or twice he smiled sickly at her and Miss Willerton could see that he had straight teeth and sad eyes and a rash over his forehead.
"Ugh," she shuddered.
Miss Willerton laid the groceries on the kitchen table and went back to her typewriter. She looked at the paper in it. "Lot Motun called his dog," it read. "The dog pricked up its ears and slunk over to him. He pulled the animal's short, scraggy ears and rolled over with it in the mud."
"That sounds awful!" Miss Willerton muttered. "It's not a good subject anyway," she decided. She needed something more colorful--more arty. Miss Willerton looked at her typewriter for a long time. Then of a sudden her fist hit the desk in several ecstatic little bounces. "The Irish! she squealed, "the Irish!" Miss Willerton had always admired the Irish. Their brogue, she thought, was full of music; and their history--splendid! And the people, she mused, the Irish people! They were full of spirit--red-haired, with broad shoulders and great, drooping mustaches.
