A short-story writer (his “The Evils of Spain” could be read along with this book), Pritchett was a master of compression.
Mr. Pritchett,” she said, abruptly, “I want to ask you a serious question.
He said nothing about it; he merely told Mr. Pritchett to arrange the matter.
"You may well say that, child," Miss Pritchett answered faintly.
Mr. Pritchett was dressed in his best, and was very sad and solemn.
“We are going to be your nearest neighbors, Mr. Pritchett,” said Lyddy, briskly.
Mr. Pritchett could not get on any further without pausing for breath.
How would Pritchett have rejoiced had he heard the old man speak so!
You may be sure of this, Mr. Pritchett, that my uncle will never consult me about his money.
A great deal that will interest you, dear Miss Pritchett, though I do not know if you will be pleased.