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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Clara, darling," he said in tones that shouldn't have fooled a baby seal, "why should we have hard words? Ain't you my own tootsum wootsum?" A black mark against you, Mr. Peters, in the sacred ledger of Cupid. Charges of attempted graft are filed against you, and of forgery and utterance of two of Love's holiest of appellations. But the miracle of spring was wrought.
Peters had a tablespoonful of the stuff inserted into him. Then Mrs. Peters sat on his lap and murmured: "Call me tootsum wootsums again, James." He sat still, held there by his materialized goddess of spring. Spring had come. On the bench in Union Square Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Kidd squirmed, tongue-parched, awaiting D'Artagnan and his dollar. "I wish I had choked her at first," said Mr.
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