"Oh, I don't know." The story was getting better. Then, looking up with
Kate's queer smile: "It might hurt their feelings."

"Why would it--?"

"Oh, Wayneworth Jones! Why were you born with your brain cells screwed
into question marks?--and _why_ do I have to go through life getting them
unscrewed?"

She actually read a paragraph; and as there she had to turn a page she
looked over at Ann. Ann's puppy had joined Worth's on the floor and
together they were indulging in bites of puppyish delight at the little
boy's legs, at each other's tails, at so much of the earth's atmosphere
as came within range of their newly created jaws craving the exercise of
their function. Mad with the joy of living were those two collie pups on
that essentially live and joyous morning.

And Ann, if not mad with the joy of living, seemed sensible of the wonder
of it. "Days in Florence" open on her lap, hands loose upon it, she was
looking off at the river. From hard thoughts of other days Kate could
see her drawn to that day--its softness and sunshine, its breath of the
river and breath of the trees. Folded in the arms of that day was Ann
just then. The breeze stirred a little wisp of hair on her temple--gently
swayed the knot of ribbon at her throat. The spring was wooing Ann; her
face softened as she listened. Was it something of that same force which
bounded boisterously up in boy and dogs which was stealing over
Ann--softening, healing, claiming?

The next paragraph of the story on the printed page was less interesting.