"Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. "Her ladyship—" faltered the attendant. “It’s—private. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide.
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