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But this book that she and Harriett had banished and wanted to burn in their early teens together with "Sandford and Merton."... "You are reading 'Misunderstood'?" she faltered, glancing at the four politely waiting girls. It was Minna who answered her in her husky, eager voice. "D'ja, d'ja," she responded, "na, ich meine, yace, yace we read so sweet and beautiful book not?"
"That's a thrush," she heard Bertha Martin say as a chattering flew across a distant garden and Fraulein's half-singing reply, "Know you, children, what the thrush says? Know you?" and Minna's eager voice sounding out into the open, "D'ja, d'ja, ich, weiss Ritzifizier, sagt sie, Ritzifizier, das vierundzwanzigste Jahr!" and voices imitating. "Spring! Spring!
The majority boasted of white kid boots or someone's discarded near-electric-seal jacket, plumes in their hats, and an absence of warm woollens. And everyone yawned, between patting thin cheeks with soiled face chamois, 'What d'ja do las' night?
"Come clean, McRae. Who was it? There'll be nothin' doin' till I know that," he growled. "My daughter." West glared at him, for once astonished out of profanity. "What?" "My daughter Jessie." "Goddlemighty, d'ja mean to tell me a girl did it?" He threw back his head in a roar of Homeric laughter. "Ever hear the beat of that? A damn li'l' Injun squaw playin' her tricks on Bully West!
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