It bade you keep your distance on pain of injury. Mrs.
Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a curious
weakness as she looked at a female of the species so much
deadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered: and came
near feeling a half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom this
dynamic maiden was to be unleashed. She hardly knew how to open
the conversation.
Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She always
preferred to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, and
words flew out as if shot from a machine-gun. As far as Mrs.
Pett could observe, she considered it unnecessary to part her
teeth, preferring to speak with them clenched. This gave an
additional touch of menace to her speech.
"Dafternoon," said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pett backed
convulsively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as if
somebody had thrown a brick at her.
"Good afternoon," she said faintly.
"Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y'ad job f'r
me. Came here squick scould."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Squick scould. Got slow taxi."
"Oh, yes."
Miss Trimble's right eye flashed about the room like a
searchlight, but she kept the other hypnotically on her
companion's face.
"Whass trouble?" The right eye rested for a moment on a
magnificent Corot over the mantelpiece, and she snifted again.
"Not s'prised y'have trouble. All rich people 've trouble.
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