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"When you feel that way," interrupted Felicia quietly, "you mustn't have a 'scarbolic' bottle, that's a thing that will make you go dead " "It's my own business if I do I'd rather be dead than the way I am " she stretched out her arms passionately, "I haven't room to breathe! I did have that top floor front you know, it was a peach of a place to work.
Felicia stood there, an absurdly dowdy figure, Babiche clasped in her arm, and smiled timorously. "Where is your dog?" she asked sweetly. "What dog?" demanded a sulky voice. "The dog you were going to wash " Felicia's voice was casual. "With the 'scarbolic." "I wasn't trying to wash any dog " the girl breathed dully. Felicia moved quickly, she took the bottle from the girl's hand.
"Then I wish you'd lend me your 'scarbolic," she entreated sweetly, "Babiche really needs a bath." The youthful sufferer stared from her tear-stained eyes, stared with all her might at the shabby, frumpy, middle-aged looking little person who had taken the bottle from her hand. "I can't stand it " she sobbed bitterly, "I've got to quit you don't know how I feel I feel as if "
Sometimes she, was allowed to stand in the gateway and watch them have their farewell bath, only of course she sniffed uncomfortably when Zeb let brown drops drip into the rinsing water from a fat bottle with a gay red skull and cross-bones on the label. "Scarbolic" was what she understood it to be, she mustn't touch it or she'd "go dead," whatever that was.
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