Clem laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
'Queer sort o' sisters. She was a bit too quiet-like for me. There
never was no fun in her.'
'Aye, like her mother. And where did you say she went to with the
old man?'
'Where she went to?' repeated Clem, regarding him steadily with her
big eyes, 'I never said nothing about it, 'cause I didn't know.'
'Well, I shan't cry about her, and I don't suppose she misses me
much, wherever she is. All the same, Clem, I'm a domesticated sort
of man; you can see that, can't you? I shouldn't wonder if I marry
again one of these first days. Just tell me where to find a girl of
the right sort. I dare say you know heaps.'
'Dessay I do. What sort do you want?'
'Oh, a littlish girl--yellow hair, you know--one of them that
look as if they didn't weigh half-a-stone.'
'I'll throw this parsnip at you, Mr. Snowdon!'
'What's up now. You don't Call yourself littlish, do you?'
Clem snapped the small end off the vegetable she was paring, and
aimed it at his head. He ducked just in time. Then there was an
outburst of laughter from both.
'Say, Clem, you haven't got a glass of beer in the house?'
'You'll have to wait till openin' time,' replied the girl sourly,
going away to the far end of the room.
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