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The impression I did receive of her appearance I communicated to my mother in far from respectful pantomime. "Well, love, and what do you think of Mrs. Wood?" said she. "I think," chanted I, in that high brassy pitch of voice which Jem and I had adopted for this bravado period of our existence "I think she's like our old white hen that turned up its eyes and died of the pip. Lack-a-daisy-dee!
Lack-a-daisy-dee!" And I twisted my body about, and strolled up and down the room with a supposed travesty of Mrs. Wood's movements. "So she is," said faithful Jem. "Lack-a-daisy-dee! Lack-a-daisy-dee!" and he wriggled about after me, and knocked over the Berlin wool-basket. "Oh dear, oh dear!" said our poor mother.
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