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"Poor little Phoebe!" said I, my thoughts going back to the baby she carried all those hundred miles. "Ah! you may say so! I never thought I should have reared her, though, when she fell ill at Chunderabaddad; but that good, kind Aga Jenkyns took us in, which I believe was the very saving of her." "Jenkyns!" said I. "Yes, Jenkyns.
I would make further inquiry. Was the "poor Peter" of Cranford the Aga Jenkyns of Chunderabaddad, or was he not? As somebody says, that was the question. In my own home, whenever people had nothing else to do, they blamed me for want of discretion. Indiscretion was my bug-bear fault.
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