Miss Clementine Fernsby was dressed inappropriately for the sweltering weather in her bespoken Weddington blouse of starched cotton, and ankle-length woolen walking skirt. Her silvery hair sat on top of her head in an orderly, coifed Edwardian bun.
She and her secretary, Mabel, a plain and dowdy matron, were taking a stroll around the city’s central park when they were nearly stampeded by a swarm of young hooligans. Each one under age 10 and covered in as many year’s worth of grime.
“Children should be eaten and not heard.”
“That’s not how the saying goes.”
“That’s how I say it.”