was a large, solemn woman, was Misthress Crow, an a gr-r-reat histhorian.
“No,” says Margit, scorning the intherruption, “not if the two men were rowled into one,” says she.
“Why,” says Caycelia Crow, an’ her deep woice tolled like a passing bell—”why,” says she, “should any dacint woman be wantin’ to marry one of thim haythen Imperors? Sure they’re all ambiguious,” she says, looking around proud of the grand worrud.
Elizabeth Ann sthopped the spinning-wheel the betther to listen, while the others turned bothered faces to the histhorian.
“Ambiguious,” says Misthress Crow, raisin’ her woice in the middle part of the worrud; “ambiguious,” she says again, “manes that accordin’ to the laygal laws of some furrin parts, a man may marry four or five wives if he has a mind to.”
At this Margit bristled up like a bantam-hin.
“Do you mane to say, Caycelia Crow,” says she, dhroppin’ in her lap the weskit she was mendin’, “do you intind to substantiate that I’m wishin’ to marry the Imperor of Chiney, or,” she says, her woice growin’ high an’ cutting as an east wind, “do you wish to inferentiate that if my Dan’l had the lave he’d be
