And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. Everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief in the neighborhood, no one wanted to see how those kids would grow up. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that.
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