"Sleepyhead," she greeted, holding up a sliver for him to nibble.
And his mother: "That was a good rest for you, son? You feel better?"
"Immense," he said, hunching his shoulders and stretching his hands down
into his pockets in a yawny well-being.
"I wish, then, you would put another leaf in the table for me. There's
four besides your father coming over from Aunt Gussie's. I just wish you
would look at Ada. For a girl that don't have to turn her hand at home,
with two servants, and a laundress every other week, just look how handy
she is with everything she touches."
The litter of Sunday-night supper, awaiting its transfer to the
dining-room table, lay spread in the faithful geometry of the cold,
hebdomadal repast. A platter of ruddy sliced tongue; one of noonday
remnants of cold chicken; ovals of liverwurst; a mound of potato salad
crisscrossed with strips of pimento; a china basket of the stuffed
dates, all kissed with sugar; half of an enormously thick cheese cake;
two uncovered apple pies; a stack of delicious raisin-stuffed curlicues,
known as _"schneken,"_ pickles with a fern of dill across them (Ada's
touch, the dill); a dish of stuffed eggs with a toothpick stuck in each
half (also Ada's touch, the toothpicks).
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