“There’s a little tongue left, I reckon!” said Mrs Jane.
“The way she will get up and go to market, my dears, after such a night as that,” pursued Mrs Marcella, who always ran on her own line of rails, and never shunted to avoid collision; “you never saw anything like her—the amount she can bear! She’s as tough as a rhinoceros, and as strong as an elephant, and as wanting in feeling as—as—”
“A sensitive plant,” popped in Mrs Jane. “Now, Marcella, open your mouth and shut your eyes, and take this.”
“Is it castor oil?” faintly screamed the invalid, endeavouring to protect herself.
“Stuff! ’Tis good Tent wine. Take it and be thankful.”
“Where did you get it, Jane?”
“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” said Mrs Jane. “It was honestly come by.”
“Well, I think we must be going, Mrs Marcella,” said Rhoda, rising.
“Oh, my dear! Must you, really? And so seldom as you come to see a poor thing like me, who hasn’t a living creature to care for her—except Jane, of course, and she doesn’t, not one bit! Dear! And to think that I was once a pretty young maid, with a little fortune of my own; and there was many a young gentleman, my dear, that would have given his right hand for no more than a smile from me—”
“Heyday! how this world is given to lying!” interpolated Mrs Jane.