McGuffey in her brave white cap and braver white apron.
Only bright eyes and rosy faces today framed in tiny bon nets, and
well-groomed young fellows in white scarfs and black coats.
But if anybody had thought of the shabby surroundings they forgot
all about it when they mounted the third flight of stairs and
looked in the door. Not only was Peter's bedroom full of outer
garments, and Miss Felicia's, too, for that matter--but the
banisters looked like a clothes-shop undergoing a spring cleaning,
so thickly were the coats slung over its hand rail. So, too, were
the hall, and the hall chairs, and the gas bracket, and even the
hooks where Peter hung his clothes to be brushed in the morning--
every conceivable place, in fact, wherever an outer wrap of any
kind could be suspended, poked, or laid flat. That Mrs. McGuffey
was at her wits' end--only a short walk--was evident from the way
she grabbed my hat and coat and disappeared through a door which
led to her own apartments, returning a moment later out of breath
and, I fancied, a little out of temper.
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