“Look!” exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. “Eh! I’m moithered to death with them. They’re a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday⁠—and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them⁠—and back it’s sent. She almost cried. She’s afraid she’ll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves.”