“I will not have it. I will not put up with it. I am not a child, and I will not have it.”
This voice’s t ’s were a little too thick for t ’s, but not thick enough to be d ’s.
Another voice was a lively, but slightly harsh, baritone. It said cheerfully:
“What’s the good of saying we won’t put up with it, when we are putting up with it?”
The third voice was feminine, a soft voice, but flat and spiritless. It said:
“But perhaps he did kill him.”
The whining voice said: “I do not care. I will not have it.”
The baritone voice said, cheerfully as before: “Oh, won’t you?”
A doorknob turned farther down the hall. I didn’t want to be caught standing there listening. I advanced to the open doorway.