“You poor lamb!”
She puts on that weedling voyce she has whin bothering me to let her make mussy foodge in me frying pans:
“Delia” ses she, “w-wudnt you like to cum back?”
I shuk me hed. Then she set back, her horchure cuming back agin.
“O well” ses she, “theres hundreds of uther girls.”
“Yes” ses I “the same as the elivin yourve had.”
“Delia” ses she wid pashion “for pity sake do come back. I did thry to do my best but its like attempting to pleese a family of porkypines since you left and O! those awful craychures that came after you left. Why wan of thim” ses she indignantly “was want to tak the soyled table linen—aven the lace doylies—for dish cloths.”
“My God! miss” ses I “you don’t meen them buties you made yersilf?”
“Yes indade,” ses she turning her face away.
“Miss Claire” ses I.