“I’m too bad to eat.”
“Yes—yes; I know, darling, but do—do try and come down and have a glass of wine. It will do you good, and keep poor papa from being so violent.”
“I don’t want any wine. And I shan’t come. There!”
“Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!” sighed Mrs Wilton; “what am I to do?”
“Go and tell him I won’t come. Bad enough to be hit by that beastly old prize fighter, without him kicking me as he did. I’m not a door mat.”
“No, no, my dear; of course not.”
“An old brute! I believe he has injured my liver.”
“Claud, my darling, don’t, pray don’t say that.”
“Why not? The doctor ought to be fetched; I’m in horrid pain.”
“Yes, yes, my dear; and it did seem very hard.”