Presently she returned.
"Mamma came here this afternoon and brought his hood--a new one--such
a lovely hood!--and she says he looks more than ever like a Flavel in
it."
"I don't believe you listened to a word of what I was saying."
"Oh yes, I did; you always think I don't listen; but I can listen to
you and watch for him too."
"What did I say?"
"Never mind, I know."
"I cannot understand," he said sullenly, and diverted for a moment
from his subject, "why mamma should be always telling YOU he is a
Flavel."
"Well, really, George, why shouldn't she? Tryphosa said the other
day that if you were to take away grandpapa Flavel's wig and bands
from the picture in the Evangelical Magazine he would be just like
him."
"It seems to me," replied George, "that if there's any nonsense going
about the town, it always comes to you. People don't talk such
rubbish to me."
What the effect of this speech might have been cannot be told, for at
this moment the baby did really cry, and Priscilla departed hastily
for the night. She never spoke to her mother about the election,
for, as George suspected, she had not paid the slightest attention to
him; and as to exchanging with her mother a single word upon such a
subject as politics, or upon any other subject which was in any way
impersonal,--she never did such a thing in her life.
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