"I see. But I'm a little, just a little, afraid you may have trouble in
getting the stuffing to stay in while the chicken is roasting. You
see--" He paused.
"I suppose I've cut it open too much."
"Rather--unless you're a very good amateur surgeon. And even then--"
"I'm no surgeon--I'm no cook--I never shall be! I--don't want to be!"
Charlotte burst out, suddenly, beginning to cut up the chicken with
vigorous slashes, mostly in the wrong places.
"Yes, you do. Hold on a minute! That joint isn't there: it's farther
down. There. See? Once get the anatomy of this bird in your mind, and it
won't bother you a bit to cut it up. Pardon me, Miss Charlotte, but I
know you do want to be a good cook--because you want to be an
accomplished woman."
Charlotte put down her knife, washed her hands with furious haste, got
out a pitcher, poured it full of hot water, and handed it silently to
Doctor Churchill without looking at him. He glanced from it to her with
amusement as he received it "Thank you," he said, politely, and walked
away.
When he came down-stairs fifteen minutes later, he found the slim figure
in the Turkey-red apron waiting for him at the bottom.
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