Mère Fourcy was a stout woman of fifty-five, who, despite her corpulence, was active and alert; she heard her niece come in, and came downstairs to help her unload her ass.
“What have you got there, my child?” she asked.
“The cheeses I made for Madame Destival.”
“Why didn’t she take ‘em?”
“Because—because she didn’t want ‘em.”
“Oh! that’s different.—What! all this milk too?”
“Oh, dear! yes, aunt.”
“And I wouldn’t let Monsieur Brichard have any this morning!”
“Oh! we’ll use it up, aunt.”
“Has Madame Destival taken her trade away from you?”