Not content with this exhibition of her prowess, the Amazon lifted him up as easily as if he had been an infant, and placed him upon her shoulders, to the infinite delight of the company, and the increased distress of his mother. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. We ourselves have been similarly circumstanced. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. . “It’s—private. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you.
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