"I suppose that was Uncle George, peeping out of their sitting-room window. I was only looking up at the ironwork, but goodness only knows what he will think. I wish he wouldn't pry so."
"Time on his hands, maybe."
"Darling!" I said, indignantly. I refuse to be noble about people who snoop. Uncle George snoops. You can call it insomnia or you can blame it on his heart, but I say Uncle George snoops."
(from The Indigo Necklace, by Frances Crane)
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