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Updated: May 14, 2025
"Don't hurry it's so lovely here in the dusk the flowers smell so sweet." Re-entering the house, Owen ran down the passage with hasty feet. Mrs. Blades, who had a tendency to what she called "chronical brownkitis," had not ventured to brave the night air; and Owen found her still regarding the Little Ladies, who burned trimly on the tray before her. "All right, Mrs.
"She do be packin' her bag, byes," she whispered, "she's takin' the eliven o'clock train, an' she won't be back till tomorrow at noon. Now what d'ye think o' that? She's awful quate, but she's niver spilt a tear fer him that I could spot." "For who?" "Why, her brother to be sure. It's him that's dead. It's a attack of brownkitis that's carried him off so suddint.
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