Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the editor’s arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).
Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the Eatanswill GAZETTE.
Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual in a foreign uniform, who was passing by.
Leo Hunter, ‘Pig Vig or Big Vig–what you call–lawyer–eh?
Leo Hunter’s recitation of her far-famed ‘Ode to an Expiring Frog,’ which was encored once, and would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs.
Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions around her.
Leo Hunter, ‘how anxiously I have been expecting him.
`He wasn’t any Rockefeller,’ put in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which reminded me of the way in which Mrs.
Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a moment later broke into a giggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated, with an awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes standing between them: Jake and Otto and I!
I was saucy and impertinent to him, Leo, like you are with people sometimes, and I wish somebody had made me behave.’
Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, and lay giggling and whispering.
I was thinking about Antonia and her children; about Anna’s solicitude for her, Ambrosch’s grave affection, Leo‘s jealous, animal little love.