Roughing It

After supper a woman got in, who lived about fifty miles further on, and
we three had to take turns at sitting outside with the driver and
conductor.  Apparently she was not a talkative woman.  She would sit
there in the gathering twilight and fasten her steadfast eyes on a
mosquito rooting into her arm, and slowly she would raise her other hand
till she had got his range, and then she would launch a slap at him that
would have jolted a cow; and after that she would sit and contemplate the
corpse with tranquil satisfaction–for she never missed her mosquito; she
was a dead shot at short range.  She never removed a carcase, but left
them there for bait.  I sat by this grim Sphynx and watched her kill
thirty or forty mosquitoes–watched her, and waited for her to say
something, but she never did.  So I finally opened the conversation
myself.  I said:

“The mosquitoes are pretty bad, about here, madam.”

“You bet!”

“What did I understand you to say, madam?”

“You BET!”

Then she cheered up, and faced around and said:

Read the rest of Roughing It, by Mark Twain

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