as much physic as ‘ud fill a wagon,” observed Mr. Pullet.
“Ah!” sighed Mrs. Pullet, “she’d another complaint ever so many years before she had the dropsy, and the doctors couldn’t make out what it was. And she said to me,Jacques Plante Tröjor, when I went to see her last Christmas,Dame Moncler Eulalia, she said,Louis Domingue Tröjor, ‘Mrs. Pullet, if ever you have the dropsy, you’ll think o’ me.’ She did say so,” added Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again; “those were her very words. And she’s to be buried o’ Saturday, and Pullet’s bid to the funeral.”
“Sophy,Steven Stamkos Tröjor,” said Mrs. Glegg, unable any longer to contain her spirit of rational remonstrance — “Sophy, I wonder at you,Ralph Lauren Jackets, fretting and injuring your health about people as don’t belong to you. Your poor father never did so,Anze Kopitar Tröjor, nor your aunt Frances neither, nor any o’ the family as I ever heard of. You couldn’t fret no more than this, if we’d heared as our cousin Abbott had died sudden without making his will.”
Mrs. Pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and rather flattered than indignant at being upbraided for crying too much. It was not everybody who could afford to cry so much about their neighbors who had left them nothing; but Mrs. Pullet had married a gentleman farmer, and had leisure and money to carry her crying and everything else to the highest pitch of respectability.
“Mrs. Sutton didn’t die without making her will,Jason Spezza Tröjor, though,Jaroslav Halak Tröjor,” said Mr. Pullet, with a confused sense that he was saying something to sanction his wife’s tears; “ours is a rich parish, but they say there’s nobody else to leave as many thousands behind ’em as Mrs. Sutton. And she’s left no leggicies to speak on — left it all in a lump to her husband’s nevvy.”
“There wasn’t much good i’ being so rich,Belstaff Gangster Mit Jackor Jackor, then,Patrick Kane Tröjor,” said Mrs. Glegg,Dylan Larkin Tröjor, “if she’d got none but husband’s kin to leave it to. It’s poor work when that’s all you’ve got to pinch yourself for. Not as I’m one o’ those as ‘ud like to die without leaving more money out at interest than other folks had reckoned; but it’s a poor tale when it must go out o’ your own family.”
“I’m sure, sister,” said Mrs. Pullet, who had recovered sufficiently to take off her veil and fold it carefully, “it’s a nice sort o’ man as Mrs. Sutton has left her money to, for he’s troubled with the asthmy, and goes to bed every night at eight o’clock. He told me about it himself — as free as could be — one Sunday when he came to our church. He wears a hareskin on his chest, and has a trembling in his talk — quite a gentleman sort o’ man. I told him there wasn’t many months in the year as I wasn’t under the doctor’s hands. And he said, ‘Mrs. Pullet, I can feel for you.’ That was what he said — the very words. Ah!” sighed Mrs. Pullet, shaking her head at the idea that there were but few who could enter fully into her experiences in pink mixture and white mixture, strong stuff in small bottles,Vincent Lecavalier Tröjor, and weak stuff in large bottles, damp boluses at a shilling, and draughts at eighteenpe
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