" Mrs. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. She made a double kill mid-month in a trailer park, a forty year old man and his seventeen year old wife, finding out too late that she was seven weeks pregnant. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. But you couldn't. It’s on the horse. ” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips.
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