“WHEN I die, ” said Calliope Marsh, “don’t you get anybody that’s always treated me like a dog and put them on the front seat. Make ’em sit back.”
Then she looked at me, her rare and somewhat abashed smile on her face.
“Birds and stars and children and God in the world, ” she said, “and hark at me talking like that. Honest, I don’t care where you seat ’em.”