Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is.
"Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is," said Keith, with an air of superior knowledge.
"I don't think there is any harm in a garret," Lettice answered calmly.
"Don't you? Mamsie said you would. She said you'd grumble, and if you did, she'd teach you not . . . Are you ill?" pursued the child, gazing hard. "You haven't got a pretty red in your cheeks, like Mamsie. I'm glad that other ill lady didn't come, 'cause she wouldn't have let me make a noise. And Mamsie is glad too. She cried, and didn't want her. And she said this room would do for you!"
"Yes, of course." Lettice was keenly conscious of the imitative contempt in the shrill little voice, and yet more keenly conscious of the slight to Sissie.
"Mamsie doesn't like ill people: nor I don't. Are you ill?"
"No."
"Will you play with me? I'll like you, if you will. I want somebody to run races. Susanna is too old, and Bella can't, and Mamsie gets a stitch. Have you got a stitch? Will you have a nice big race?"
"By-and-by I will, Keith. Not just now."