No, it was on her back; but Clara's was identical.
In her excitement, Rosa pinched Staines, and with her nose, that went like a water-wagtail, pointed out the malefactor. Then she whispered, “Look! How dare she? My very jacket! Earrings too, and brooches, and dresses her hair like mine.”
“Well, never mind,” whispered Staines. “Sunday is her day. We have got all the week to shine. There, don't look at her—'From all evil speaking, lying, and slandering'”—
“I can't keep my eyes off her.”
“Attend to the Litany. Do you know, this is really a beautiful composition?”
“I'd rather do the work fifty times over myself.”
“Hush! people will hear you.”
When they walked home after church, Staines tried to divert her from the consideration of her wrongs; but no—all other topics were too flat by comparison.
She mourned the hard fate of mistresses—unfortunate creatures that could not do without servants.
“Is not that a confession that servants are good, useful creatures, with all their faults? Then as to the mania for dress, why, that is not confined to them. It is the mania of the sex. Are you free from it?”