Читать книгу Some Do Not... онлайн

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'I've said once,' she said, 'that I don't like to hear my friends miscalled. Eunice Vanderdecken is a bitterly misjudged woman. She's a real good pal.'

'She's a Russian spy,' Mrs Satterthwaite said.

'Russian grandmother,' Sylvia answered. 'And if she is, who cares? She's welcome for me...Listen now, you two. I said to myself when I came in: "I daresay I've given them both a rotten time." I know you're both more nuts on me than I deserve. And I said I'd sit and listen to all the pi-jaw you wanted to give me if I sat till dawn. And I will. As a return. But I'd rather you let my friends alone.'

Both the elder people were silent. There came from the shuttered windows of the dark room a low, scratching rustle.

'You hear!' the priest said to Mrs Satterthwaite. 'It's the branches,' Mrs Satterthwaite answered.

The Father answered: 'There's no tree within ten yards! Try bats as an explanation.'

'I've said I wish you wouldn't, once,' Mrs Satterthwaite shivered. Sylvia said:

'I don't know what you two are talking about. It sounds like superstition. Mother's rotten with it.'