--I put
your gloves away----
MRS. BRAMSON (_as he wheels her in_): I feel dead. (_To_
HUBERT) Oh, it's you.... I feel dead.
DAN (_sitting beside her on the sofa, full of high spirits_):
Don't you be a silly old 'oman, you look as pretty as a picture--
strawberries and cream in your face, and not a day over forty; and when
I've made you a nice cup of tea you'll be twenty-five in the sun and
eighteen with your back to the light, so you think yourself lucky!
MRS. BRAMSON (_as he digs her in the side_): Oh, Danny, you are a
terror! (_To the others_) He's been at me like this all the way. I
must say it keeps me alive.
DAN (_as she hands him her hat and cape_): But you feel dead. I
get you.
MRS. BRAMSON (_kittenish_): Oh, you caution! You'll be the death
of me!
DAN (_wagging his finger at her_): Ah-ha! (_Hanging up her
things in the hall_) Now what'd you like a drop of in your tea--gin,
whisky, liqueur, brandy, or a nice dollop of sailor's rum, eh?
MRS. BRAMSON: Just listen to him! Now don't make me laugh, dear,
because there's always my heart.
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