"I've refused all these to Uncle Timothy; he's been worrying me with
questions--" I said desperately.
"Three florists, two confectioners," he enumerated, as if he had not heard
me.
"--Women eat sweets by the ton, but lately there have been few of 'em in
this house. Then here are the accounts for newspaper clippings, you know;
Shanks and Romeike; but they're trifles."
"You must have been a good customer," John said, glancing about the
dishevelled flat--I hadn't had the heart to rearrange it since Mrs.
Whitney left. "From the look of the place, I believe you would have bought
a mummy or a heathen god, if anybody had suggested it to you."
"I have a little heathen god--Gautama; alabaster--and a mummied cat."
"And you're very fond of that? But no matter. Shoemaker and milliner and
furniture man; that makes eleven."
He lengthened his list on the margin of a newspaper.
"Well, I never paid Van Nostrand for that painting, and I've even
forgotten how much he said it would be. And there's a photograph bill--a
perfectly scandalous one--and another dressmaker; Mrs. Edgar; I went back
to her after Meg's woman got crusty, but she never'll sue me.
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