They change occupations: the Brat stirs, and she fishes for almonds.

Ten minutes pass: the taffy is done, and what is more it really is taffy.

The upshot of our cookery is in general so startlingly indifferent from what we had intended, that the result in the present case takes us by surprise.

We all prove practically that, in the words of the receipt-book, it "breaks clear between the teeth without sticking to them." It is poured into Bobby's soup-plate, and we have thrown up the window-sashes, and set it on the ledge to cool.

The searching wind blows in dry and biting.