affected little thing, and gave herself invalid airs to attract medical notice. And to see the old dowager making her recline on a couch, and 'my son John' prohibiting excitement, etcetera—faugh! the scene was quite sickening."
"It would not have been so if the object of attention had been changed: if you had taken Miss de Bassompierre's place."
"Indeed! I hate 'my son John!'"
"'My son John!'—whom do you indicate by that name? Dr. Bretton's mother never calls him so."
"Then she ought. A clownish, bearish John he is."
"You violate the truth in saying so; and as the whole of my patience is now spun off the distaff, I peremptorily desire you to rise from that bed, and vacate this room."
"Passionate thing! Your face is the colour of a coquelicot. I wonder what always makes you so mighty testy à l'endroit du gros Jean? 'John Anderson, my joe, John!' Oh! the distinguished name!"
Thrilling with exasperation, to which it would have been sheer folly to have given vent—for there was no contending with that unsubstantial feather,
