MRS. BRAMSON: You can't expect the girl to gather firewood with one hand and clear breakfast with the other. Clear away.
MRS. TERENCE (crossing to the table, under her breath): All right, you sour-faced old hag.
HUBERT drops his pipe. MRS. BRAMSON winces and looks away. MRS. TERENCE clears the table.
HUBERT (to OLIVIA): What—what was that she said?
MRS. TERENCE: She 'eard. And then she 'as to save 'er face and pretend she 'asn't. She knows nobody but me'd stay with 'er a day if I went.
MRS. BRAMSON: She oughtn't to talk to me like that. I know she steals my sugar.
MRS. TERENCE: That's a living lie. (Going round to her) Here are your roses.
MRS. BRAMSON: You've cut them too young. I knew you would.
MRS. TERENCE (taking up her tray and starting for the kitchen): Then you come out and pick the ones you want, and you'll only 'ave yourself to blame.
MRS. BRAMSON: That's a nice way to talk to an invalid.