“Excuse me?” Mike threw Michelle a strange look, bursting into a grin. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. " So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate. She liked to do it for Cathy Beck, so that she could relax after waitressing all day at the Big Apple with a homemade meal. She held out her arms to him and smiled. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. I may want you.
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