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"Well, ma'am, she ain't the hoppin' kind." A few minutes later Sheila discovered that emphatically she was not the hopping kind. A great, bony woman with a wide, flat, handsome face, she came along the station platform, kissed Sylvester with hard lips and stared at Sheila ... the stony stare of her kind. "Babe ran the Ford down, Sylly," she said in the harshest voice Sheila had ever heard.
"I was writing a letter," said Sheila in a low voice, beginning to wash the plates and shrinking at the pain of scalding water. "Hmp! Writing letters at this hour! One of your friends back East? I thought it was about time somebody was looking you up. What do your acquaintance think of you comin' West with Sylly?"
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