"Come in; your hair is wet, and your shawl is wringing. Now for a cold."
"I never shall have any more colds, Aunt Merce; never mean to have anything to myself—entirely, you know."
"You do me good, you dear girl; I love you"; and she began to cry.
"There's nothing but cold ham and boiled rice for your dinner."
"What time is it?"
"Near three."
I opened the door of the dining-room; the table was laid, and I walked round it, on a tour of inspection.
"I thought you might as well have your dinner, all at once," said Fanny, by the window, with her feet tucked up on the rounds of her chair. "Here it is."
"I perceive. Who arranged it?"
"Me and Paddy Margaret."
"How many tablecloths have we?"