 Help us we're a bunch of letters stuck in this box !!
Freeman regarded the quill in his hand with mild repulsion. He couldn't put it back in his pocket now. . . and he wasn't carrying a handkerchief to wipe it off with. Instead he held it out, pinched between forefinger and thumb, away from his uniform. "Bless you," Freeman stated unenthusiastically.
Wounded at her insinuation of his age, Freeman straightened up to his full height. Five-foot-two, to be exact. "I am twelve, for your information," he huffed. "And I am very mature for my age, I will have you know." (That's what Grandmother said, anyway.) He put his hands on his hips and glared. This girl wasn't following any of the proper conversational etiquette, nor was she behaving in ladylike manner. He was at an utter loss. . . and it was all her fault.
"I guess you shouldn't wear woolen socks then," Freeman scowled. "Besides, it's September."
__________________ 
His glass is half-empty. And it's not what he ordered. |