“Dat don’t prove it, Gra’.”
“To give fifteen bob a week to a woman ’oo’d live twenty year in the course o’ nature? It do!”
“You’re mistook! You’re mistook!” Mrs. Fettley insisted.
“Liz, there’s no mistakin’ when the edges are all heaped up, like—same as a collar. You’ll see it. An’ I laid out Dora Wickwood, too. She ’ad it under the arm-pit, like.”
Mrs. Fettley considered awhile, and bowed her head in finality.
“’Ow long d’you reckon ’twill allow ye, countin’ from now, dearie?”
“Slow come, slow go. But if I don’t set eyes on ye ’fore next hoppin’, this’ll be good-bye, Liz.”
“Dunno as I’ll be able to manage by then—not ’thout I have a liddle dog to lead me. For de chillern, dey won’t be troubled, an’—O Gra’!—I’m blindin’ up—I’m blindin’ up!”
“Oh, dat was why you didn’t more’n finger with your quilt-patches all this while! I was wonderin’.... But the pain do count, don’t ye think, Liz? The pain do count to keep ’Arry—where I want ’im. Say it can’t be wasted, like.”
“I’m sure of it—sure of it, dearie. You’ll ’ave your reward.”