“Taxes, taxes, taxes,” a nasally voice exclaimed. “When will they ever learn?”

“Learn what, my dear Adams?” sneered another man as he sidled up to the short-statured man at his desk. His face was plagued by sarcasm as he peered over Adams’ shoulder.

Smacking his hands down on the desk, Adams pursed his lips in supreme annoyance and replied, “That applying more taxes will only make us more rebellious. Have you seen the chaos the Sons of Liberty have been causing?”

“Ah, yes,” Dickinson tapped a finger on his chin in mock thought. “This is Philadelphia, Adams, not Boston. It’s an entirely different world out there.”

Adams had no answer.

“And while you’re here, may I ask what it is you’re writing?”

Without skipping a beat with his furiously scribbling quill, he simply said, “You may indeed ask, but I may choose not to answer.”

Dickinson circled round to lean over the opposite end of the table and face him, reading the paper upside-down. “A letter to your wife, perhaps?”

Rolling his eyes discreetly, Adams continued writing and sighed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Not that it concerns you in the least.”

The derisive words (for anything Adams said came out derisive in some fashion) rolled off like water. “Send Abby my best wishes,” he winked and patted the desk. “She’ll need them.”

He left Adams to ponder exactly what he meant.