“Why on earth should you be sitting here in the cold, Fanny?” came the voice from the opened door—the voice of firm domestic virtue.
“Cold? cold? Surely 'Tis not cold, mamma,” she said.
“Not so very cold; but when there is a fire in the work-room it should not be wasted,” said Mrs. Burney. “But to say the truth you do not look as if you were cold; your face is quite flushed, child. I hope you do not feel that you are on the brink of a sickness, my dear.”
“Dear mamma, I never felt stronger in my life,” cried Fanny with a laugh.
“I am glad to hear that. I was saying to Lottie just now that for some days past you have had alternately a worried look and the look of one whose brain is over-excited. Is anything the matter, my child?”
“Nothing—nothing—indeed nothing! I never felt more at ease in all my life.”
“Well, well, a little exercise will do you no harm, I am sure; so put on your hat and accompany me to the fishmonger's. He has not been treating us at all fairly of late. It is not that I mind the remark made quite respectfully by James at dinner yesterday—it would be ridiculous to expect to find fish as fresh in the centre of London as he and his shipmates were accustomed to in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; but it would not be unreasonable for us to look for turbot with less of a taint than that we had yesterday. You will hear the man excuse himself by asserting that I chose the fish at his stall; but my answer to that—well, come with me and you shall hear what is my answer.”
Fanny went with her and heard.