"Mrs.Penhallow is getting to be so particular no one knows where to find her.

You would never think it, sir, but she says my tea is not fit to drink, and she is going to get her sugar from Philadelphia.

It's awful! She says it isn't as sweet as it used to be--as if sugar wasn't always the same--" "Which it isn't," laughed Rivers.
"And my tea!--Then here comes in the Squire to get a dog-collar, and roars to my poor deaf Job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had.
Send five pounds to Dr.McGregor from me--charge it to me--and a pound to Mrs.Lamb.' It wasn't but ten minutes later.

Do set down, Mr.Rivers." He accepted the chair she dusted with her apron and quietly enjoyed the little drama.

The facts were plain, the small influential motives as clear.
Secure of her hearer, Mrs.Crocker went on: "I was saying it wasn't ten minutes later that same morning Mrs.Penhallow came down on me about the sugar and the tea--worst she ever had.