“Comfort,” said Nelly, getting impatient, “why don’t you tell me, then, Comfort?”
“Tell yer what, chile?”
“What you said you would.”
"I never said I would; I said I could. Be more petik’lar with yer ’spressions, Nelly. And ’sides that, yer hadn’t oughter say ‘br’iling fish.’ Missus don’t. Leave such words to cullu’d passons, like me."
“Well, but tell me,” persisted Nelly, smilingly, brimming with the curiosity she could not restrain. “I know it was something good, because you don’t often laugh, Comfort.”
“No,” said Comfort, “that ar’s a fact. I don’t ’prove of little bits o’ stingy laughs, every now and then. I likes one good guffaw and done with it.”
“Well,” said Nelly, “go on. Tell me about it.”
“Yer see,” said Comfort, taking her pipe from between her lips, and giving a sudden whirl to the smoke issuing from them, “Yer see, Nelly, I was laughin’ ’bout my neffy.”
"Your neffy, Comfort? What’s that?"
“Lor! do tell! Don’t yer know what a neffy is yet? I didn’t ’spect yer to know much when yer was Marm Lizy’s gal, but now, when Mrs. Brooks has adopted of yer, and sent yer to school to be edicated, we look for better things. Don’t know what a neffy is, eh?”