“My poor dear creature, I bain't no Latiner,” objected the patient.
Sampson fixed his eyes sternly on the slippery dame. “What I want to know is, had you been running up-stairs? or eating fast? or drinking fast? or grizzling over twopence? or quarrelling with your husband! Come now, which was it?”
“Me quarrel with my man! We haven't never been disagreeable, not once, since we went to church a pair and came back a couple. I don't say but what we mayn't have had a word or two at odd times, as married folk will.”
“And the last time you had a word or two—y' infairnal quibbler—was it just before your last spasm, eh?”
“Well, it might; I am not gainsaying that: but you said quarrel, says you. 'Quarrel' it were your word; and I defy all Barkton, gentle and simple, to say as how me and my master——”
“Whisht! whisht! Now, jintlemen, ye see what the great coming sceince—the sceince of Healing—has to contind with. The dox are all fools, but one: and the pashints are lyres, ivery man Jack. N' listen me; y' have got a disease that you can't eradicate; but you may muzzle it for years, and die of something quite different when your time's up.”
“Like enough, sir. If you please, ma'am, Dr. Stephenson do blame my indigestion for it.”
“Dr. Stephenson's an ass.”
“Dear heart, how cantankerous you be. To be sure Dr. Osmond he says no: it's muscular, says he.”
“Dr. Osmond's an ijjit. List me; You mustn't grizzle about money; you mustn't gobble, nor drink your beer too fast.”