“You've got to apologize first.” “All right, I hereby offer my apologies, but only because if I don't, we'll be here till midnight.”
Mrs. van D. had to laugh in spite of herself. She got up and went toward the door, where she felt obliged to give us an explanation.
(By us I mean Father, Mother and me; we were busy doing the dishes.)
“He wasn't like this at home,” she said. “I'd have belted him so hard he'd have gone flying down the stairs.
He's never been so insolent. This isn't the first time he's deserved a good hiding.
That's what you get with a modern upbringing, modern children.
I'd never have grabbed my mother like that. Did you treat your mother that way, Mr. Frank?”
She was very upset, pacing back and forth, saying whatever came into her head, and she still hadn't gone upstairs.
Finally, at long last, she made her exit. Less than five minutes later she stormed back down the stairs,
with her cheeks all puffed out, and flung her apron on a chair.
When I asked if she was through, she replied that she was going downstairs.
She tore down the stairs like a tornado, probably straight into the arms of her Putti.
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