"You can't. Not in here. There isn't room for you to set. Where's your chair and your flannel apron?"
"Flannel apron?"
"Yes. If you don't wear one you'll not get any hold on him. He'll slip between your knees before you know he's gone."
"Not if I keep 'em together."
"Then there's no lap for him. What he wants is petticoats."
(Petticoats? That was the secret, was it? He had tried to soap Baby, bit by bit, as he had seen Winny do, holding him, wrapped in a towel, on his knees—a disastrous failure. It was incredible how slippery he was.)
"There's his blanket. I thought I'd dry him on the floor."
"He'll catch his death of cold, Ranny, if you do. There, give him to me. We'll take him downstairs to the fire."
He gave her the little naked, dripping body, and she wrapped it in the warm blanket and carried it downstairs.
"You bring the towels and the powder puff, and all his vests and flannels and things," said Winny.