But she was neat
and clean and quite English.
As for that, everything about the establishment was English. The
window-boxes, from basement to garret; the way the curtains hung in
rigid complaisance; the significant name-plate on the middle panel of
the door: "Joseph Grinaldi, Esq."; the minute plot of grass alongside
the steps that led to the basement, with a treasured rose-bush in the
corner thereof. You were positive, without looking, that Joey had a
back yard which he called a garden, and that it possessed everything
desirable except a vista--and he would have that if it were not for
"the houses in between," to say nothing of the high board fence he had
built to keep out all prowling beasts--including humanity--with the
double exception of cats and sparrows. Although it was a typical,
hemmed-in New York house, you wouldn't have thought of calling the
chimneys anything but pots, nor would you have called the shingles by
any other name than slates.
Joey was at home. He was expecting David, which accounts for the
prompt appearance of the sprightly maid, and the genial shout of
welcome from the top of the stairs.
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