laura. He must know. I've told him. She sent a wreath to my funeral, 'With love and fond affection, from Emily.' Fond fiddlesticks! Humbug! She knows I can't abide her.
julia. I suppose she thought it was the correct thing.
laura. And I doubt if it cost more than ten shillings. Now Mrs. Dobson—you remember her: she lives in Tudor Street with a daughter one never sees—something wrong in her head, and has fits—she sent me a cross of lilies, white lilac, and stephanotis, as handsome as you could wish; and a card—I forget what was on the card. . . . Julia, when you died——
julia. Oh, don't Laura!
laura. Well, you did die, didn't you?
julia. Here one doesn't talk of it. That's over. There are things you will have to learn.
laura. What I was going to say was—when I died I found my sight was much better. I could read all the cards without my glasses. Do you use glasses?
julia. Sometimes, for association. I have these of our dear Mother's in her tortoise-shell case.
laura. That reminds me. Where is our Mother?
julia. She comes—sometimes.