Little Soldier blew a sloppy raspberry (of thanks, most likely), her pudgy hands flailing and groping and finally managing to curl around a soft tuft of her father's hair, holding to it tightly.
Last night, after what seemed hours of damp turmoil, I got up and crept slipperless down the stairs, feeling my way in the faint street light that came through the window.
When she came within a score of feet of the desired goal, she observed a young gentleman in a grey clerk suit, fumbling his watch-chain and looking out.