'It's me,' I said.
'It's I,' said Ross.
'Oh, have you got it, too?' (I will not be reproved for grammar by a twin).
'Are you making that noise for fun, Meg?'
'No, I can't help it,' I said crossly.
'Hadn't you better have one of those things on made out of a muslin curtain, with hot muck inside,' he added vaguely, racking his brains for medical knowledge. 'Can't think what the stuff's called.'
'No,' I said violently, 'I hadn't better!'
Presently the house grew quiet and I began to worry over Ross, his bad nights, the constant pain and the absolute refusal to let any one do anything for him; he won't have a fire and snaps Brown's head off if he suggests a doctor. He was really angry with me on Saturday because I—oh, well, it's no use worrying, I reflected, as I mopped my eyes.
Just as I was about to try to compose myself for slumber, with a little folding of the hands to sleep, wishing I could drown the kitten, Nannie came in. You will hardly believe it when I tell you that she carried in between two hot plates the thing that Ross had mentioned, in a muslin curtain.
'Master Ross says,' began Nannie.