"I didn't know there was any linin' in your stomach."
"There is. It said so in the paper."
"Did it say anything about hooks and eyes and whalebones? What kind of a linin' is it—cambric, or drillin'?"
"I don't see how you can set there, Matilda, and make fun of your poor old mother, when she's bein' eaten alive by her own teeth. I wouldn't treat a dog like that, much less my own flesh and blood."
"I've never heard of dogs bein' et by their own teeth," commented Matilda, missing the point.
Ostentatiously lame, Grandmother limped to the decrepit sofa and lay down with a groan. Rosemary came in from the kitchen with the oatmeal, and was about to go back for the coffee when another groan arrested her attention.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I'm dyin', Rosemary," Grandmother mumbled, hoarsely. "I've swallered my teeth, and I am dyin' in agony."
"Nonsense! You couldn't have swallowed your teeth!"
"That's what I told her," said Miss Matilda, triumphantly.