“Sit down, my dears,” said Mrs Jane, parenthetically. “Can’t afford them, Marcella. Plenty of black currant tea. Better for you.”
“I don’t like it!” said Mrs Marcella, plaintively.
“Oranges are eightpence a-piece, and currants may be had for the gathering,” observed Mrs Jane, sententiously.
“They give me a pain in my side!” moaned the invalid.
“Well, the oranges would give you a pain in your purse. I’d rather have one in my side, if I were you.”
“You don’t know what it is to be ill!” said Mrs Marcella, closing her eyes.
“Don’t I? I’ve had both small-pox and spotted fever.”
“So long ago!”
“Bless you, child! I’m not Methuselah!” said Mrs Jane.
“Well, I think you might be, Jane, for really, the way in which you can sit up all night, and look as fresh as a daisy in the morning, when you have not had a wink of sleep, and I am perfectly worn-out with suffering—just skin and bone, and no more—”