“What you get fat on, Mosina, I don’t know, unless it’s fattening not to eat much. Mosina, I used to think it would be fun to live in one room, and get your own meals, and play housekeeping, but I’ve changed my mind. When you have to live on burnt herring—”
“And stale bread,” burst in Hilda.
“And burned potatoes—”
“And iron with irons that won’t iron—”
“And have messy washing around all the time—”
“And nothing to sew with—”
“And nothing to cook with, and nothing to cook in it—”
“And only wooden chairs to sit down on—”
“And nothing to read—”
“Oh, goodness, gracious me! I do believe I won’t ever scold again at home, and say I hate things,” said Hilda, drawing a long breath. “I never thought before how perfectly horrid it would be never to have anything nice. I wonder if poor people mind it.”