“I saw something nasty in the woodshed.”
Flora turned to Judith, with raised and inquiring eyebrows. A murmur came from the rest of the company, which was watching closely.
“’Tes one of her bad nights,” said Judith, whose gaze kept wandering piteously in the direction of Seth (he was wolfing beef in the corner). “Mother,” she said, louder, “don’t you know me? It’s Judith. I have brought Flora Poste to see you-Robert Poste’s child.”
“Nay... I saw something nasty in the woodshed,” said Aunt Ada Doom, fretfully moving her great head from side to side. ““Twas a burnin’ noonday... sixty-nine years ago. And me no bigger than a titty-wren. And I saw something na—”
“Well, perhaps she likes it better that way,” said Flora soothingly. She had been observing Aunt Ada’s firm chin, clear eyes, tight little mouth, and close grip upon the Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide, and she came to the conclusion that if Aunt Ada was mad, then she, Flora, was one of the Marx Brothers.