"There, please—please," Mamma said, "don't let us have any more of it," just as Aunt Lavvy was beginning to get a word in edgeways.
"Mamma, that isn't fair, you must let her speak."
"Yes. You must let me speak." Aunt Lavvy's voice thickened in her throat.
"I won't have any discussion of Unitarianism here," said Papa.
"It's you who have been discussing it, not I."
"It is, really, Papa. First you began. Then Mamma."
Mamma said, "If you've finished your supper, Mary, you can go."
"But I haven't. I've not had any trifle yet."
She thought: "They don't want me to hear them; but I've a right to sit here and eat trifle. They know they can't turn me out. I haven't done anything."
Aunt Lavvy went on. "I've only one thing to say, Emilius. You've asked me to think of Victor and Charlotte, and you and Caroline and the boys and Mary. Have you once—in thirty-three years—for a single minute—thought of me?"