Don't you love looking at Oscar?"
Mavis shook her head.
"Don't you think him comic?"
"No," whispered Mavis.
"Go h'on! But there, I nearly forgot!"
The "permanent" left the room, at which Mavis closed her eyes,
thankful for a few moments' peace.
"Take this cornflour," said a voice at her elbow: the "permanent"
had brought her a basinful of this food. "I made it meself, 'cause
Piggy always burns it, an' Oscar puts his fingers in it."
"You're very kind," murmured Mavis.
"Hold yer jaw," remarked the "permanent" with mock roughness.
Mavis gratefully swallowed the stuff, to feel the better for it.
When she had finished the last drop, she lay back to watch the
"permanent," who arranged the room for the night. Candle, matches,
and milk were put handy for Mavis to reach; an old skirt was put
down for Jill; bed and pillows were made comfortable.
"If you want me, I'm in the left top front with Mrs Rabbidge."
"Not alone?" asked Mavis.
"Not me. Give me company when I 'ave kids. I'll bring yer tea in the
morning."
Whatever misfortunes the fates had reserved for Mavis, they had
endowed her with a magnificent constitution; consequently, despite
the indifferent nursing, the incompetent advice, the ill-cooked
food, she quickly recovered strength.
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