(Note: A meddlesome mischief-maker.)
“Oh, stuff! I can’t always be such a prig as that!”
Phoebe was unpacking a trunk of very modest dimensions, and Rhoda, perched on a corner of the bed, sat and watched her.
“Is that your best gown?”
“Yes,” said Phoebe, lifting it carefully out.
“How many have you?”
“This and that.”
“Only two? How poor Aunt Anne must be!”
“We have always been poor.”
“Have you always lived in Bristol?”