I read on and on and forgot it was almost toast-apple time.

Of course, anybody that is anybody would be interested in Father Tiber
and the old Colosseum, but what made me forget the one slice of dry
toast and the apple was the way he seemed to be connecting me up with
all those wonderful old antiquities that had never even seen me. Because
of me he had felt and written that poem descriptive of old Tiber, and
the moonlight had lit up the Colosseum just because I was over here
lighting up Hillsboro. Of course, that is not the way he put it all, but
there is no place to really copy what he did say down into this imp book
and, anyway, that is the sentiment he expressed, boiled down and sugared
over.

That's just what I mean--love boiled down and sugared over is apt to get
an explosive flavour, and one had better be careful with that kind if
one is timid; which I'm not. As I said, also, I am ready for a little
more of life, so I read on without fear. And, to be fair, Alfred had
well boiled his own last paragraph. It snapped; and I jumped and gasped.
I almost thought I didn't quite like it, and was going to read it over
again to see, when I saw a procession coming over from Dr. John's, and
I laid the bombshell down on the bench.

First came the red setter that is always first with Dr. John, and then
he came himself, leading Billy by the hand. It was Billy, but the most
subdued Billy I ever saw, and I held out my arms and started for him.

"Wait a minute, please, Molly," said the doctor in a voice he always
uses when he's punishing Billy and me. "Bill came to apologise to you
for being rude to your--your guest. He told me all about it, and I think
he's sorry. Tell Mrs. Carter you are sorry, son." When that man speaks