Re-seated, Mrs. Glass sighed, as she always sighed, in any situation, when cups of chicken broth were declined. But she had, so to speak, been cruising in a patrol boat down and up her children’s alimentary canals for so many years that the sigh was in no sense a real signal of defeat, and she said, almost immediately, “I don’t see how you expect to get your strength and all back if you don’t take something nourishing into your system. I’m sorry, but I don’t. You’ve had exactly—“
“Mother—now, please. I’ve asked you twenty times. Will you please stop mentioning chicken broth to me? It nauseates me just to—“ Franny broke off, and listened. “Is that our phone?” she said.
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