My holiday's up on the twenty-seventh.
OLIVIA: I know I'm being tiresome, but--
MRS. BRAMSON (_in the kitchen_): The most disgraceful thing I've
ever heard--
HUBERT: She's coming back....
OLIVIA _rises and goes to the right window_. HUBERT _hurries
into the sun-room._ MRS. BRAMSON _is wheeled back from the kitchen
by_ MRS. TERENCE, _to the centre of the room. She_ (MRS. BRAMSON)
_has found the pretext for the scene she has been longing to make since
she got up this morning._
MRS. BRAMSON: Fetch that girl here. This minute.
MRS. TERENCE: Oh, leave the child alone.
MRS. BRAMSON: Leave her alone, the little sneak-thief? Fetch her here.
MRS. TERENCE (_at the top of her voice_): Dora! (_Opening the
front door and calling into the trees_) Dora!
OLIVIA: What's Dora done now?
MRS. BRAMSON: Broken three of my Crown Derby, that's all. Thought if
she planted them in the rose-bed I wouldn't be well enough ever to see
them, I suppose. Well, I _have_ seen.
MRS. TERENCE (_crossing and calling to the bedroom_): You're
wanted.
DORA'S VOICE: What for?
MRS.
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