The odd creature has heard of a congenial tribe who reside in excavations cut in a rock. It’ll end in my having a nephew who’s a mummy.
Imogen.
[Tearfully.] Oh, don’t!
Sir Julian Twombley.
Katherine, this child is not well.
Imogen.
Yes, I am, papa—but I don’t like—the idea—of parting—with anybody or anything—even a k-k-kitten.
Lady Twombley.
[Soothingly.] Imogen, my dear!
Imogen.