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Updated: June 3, 2025
When I was going home, Miss Sichliffe came up to me in the twilight, the pup on a leash, swinging her big shoes at the end of her tennis-racket. ''Sorry, she said in her thick schoolboy-like voice. 'I'm sorry for what I said to you about verifying quotations. I didn't know you well enough and anyhow, I oughtn't to have. 'But you were quite right about Little Bingo, I answered.
'He ought to have been drowned. 'But I like his cast of countenance, the girl persisted. 'He doesn't look a good life, I said, 'but perhaps he can be patched up. Miss Sichliffe turned crimson; I saw Mrs. Godfrey exchange a glance with her married daughter, and knew I had said something which would have to be lived down.
Miss Sichliffe, her hands joined across her long knees, drawled, 'You ought always to verify your quotations. It was not a kindly thrust, but something in the word 'quotation' set the automatic side of my brain at work on some shadow of a word or phrase that kept itself out of memory's reach as a cat sits just beyond a dog's jump.
'My dear boy, my dear boy, don't you ever give anything to a woman, Attley snorted. It appeared that, a month after Miss Sichliffe took him, the dog Harvey developed distemper.
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