"Auntie?" he cried. She got pregnant. "Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause.
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