"My enemy," replied her son. "Here's the door. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. I’m minded to take a whip and beat some sense into you. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that. She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come.
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