Millicent Dixon had called on me unexpectedly, soaked from neck to
ankle. I had been watching the vertical downpour from my window--long,
heavy slate-pencils of water, that rebounded from the pavement in a mist
a foot high,--and listening to the hurrying runnels that sluiced the
gutters. It was full, uncompromising rain, and it thrashed steadily from
the invisible cullender that had been a sky an hour ago. Millicent stood
before me with her hand on the door, half vexed, but laughing out of her
sodden garments.
“Now don’t sit there looking at me, Mr. Butterfield,” she exclaimed, as
I admired at her plight with eyes half closed; “get me some things.”