|Bottom of the Ironing Basket|
Down-stairs she opened the big front door, closed it carefully behind her, and, feeling oddly happy and exuberant stepped off the porch into the moonlight, swinging her heavy grip like a shopping bag. After a minute's brisk walk she discovered that her left hand still held the two blond braids. She laughed unexpectedly--had to shut her mouth hard to keep from emitting an absolute peal. She was passing Warren's house now, and on the impulse she set down her baggage, and swinging the braids like pieces of rope flung them at the wooden porch, where they landed with a slight thus. She laughed again, no longer restraining herself.
"Huh!" she giggled wildly. "Scalp the selfish thing!"
Then, picking up her suitcase she set off at a half-run down the moonlit street.
--F. Scott Fitzgerald, "Bernice Bob's Her Hair"