“Rev. Eliot!” Andrew’s wife stamped a dainty foot.
“Yes, Mrs. Eliot?” The reverend looked up from his sermon preparation.
“These gloves! You must have over 2,000 of them here.”
“Memories of the fallen, Mrs. Eliot. It would seem a traitorous act to rid myself of a single one.”
“Messengers of ill fate as I see them,” his wife insisted. “You may as well keep 2,000 dark-winged ravens in your bureau.”
“Ravens would make considerably more noise, don’t you think, dear?”
“And mess,” she conceded. “Honestly, Andrew!”
When the bell rang, the couple knew the collection was about to grow.