So Mr. Ravenslee lounged and smoked and gazed upon the many garments,
viewing them with eyes of reverie. Garments, these, of every size and
hue and shape and for either sex, garments that writhed and contorted
themselves in fantastic dances when gently stirred by a small, cool wind
which, wafting across the river from the green New Jersey shore,
breathed faintly of pine woods.
He was yet in absorbed contemplation of the aerial gambols of these many
garments when to him came Mrs. Trapes, clutching a hot iron.
"Mr. Geoffrey, what'll you eat for supper?" she demanded.
"Mrs. Trapes, what do you suppose I'm worthy of?"
"How about a lovely piece o' liver?"
"Liver!" he repeated, rubbing a square, smooth-shaven chin. "Hum! liver
sounds a trifle clammy, doesn't it? Clammy and cold, Mrs. Trapes!"
"Cold?" said she, staring, "cold--of course not! It would be nice an'
hot, with thick gravy an' a tater or so. An' as for clammy, who ever
heard o' liver as wasn't? Calves' liver, mind! They can't put me off
with sheep's--no, siree! Skudder's young man tried to once--he did so!"
"Foolish, foolhardy young man!" murmured Ravenslee.
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