"Mom, my hand hurts from slapping their faces. They're so thick-skinned," Grace Winslow couldn't help but complain.
Irene Lynch, who was holding Grace's hand, paused. Then she chimed in, "You're telling me. So shameless. And to think they'd slam their faces into my girl's hand. If I'd known they would hurt you, I'd have made them pay for medical expenses before letting them leave."
Grace giggled and looped her arm through Irene Lynch's. "Exactly. Next time they come, we'll hit them with a broom."
Chatting and laughing, the mother and daughter went back inside, closing the door behind them.
Only then did the neighbors dare to poke their heads out.
They exchanged glances for a moment, then silently retreated back inside.
'Can't mess with them, can't mess with them. The Winslow family is not to be trifled with.'
'The old and the young are all so vicious.'
Grace, of course, had no idea what those people were thinking.
