Margaret rushed up the servant’s back staircase carrying a basket of fruit. The narrow steps barely accomodated her robust girth. It’s the evil pollen vortex, she thought, once Isabelle eats these oranges and kumquats, she’ll be fine, I just know it.
As she reached the fourth floor landing, she could hear sneezing and sniffling from behind one of the closed doors. Tapping on door with the ferocity of a small rodent attemping to open a gnaw open a box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, she entered before hearing a feeble "come in" spoken with a slight Bavarian accent.
"Oh, Miss Margaret, ma’am," the young girl said, "It’s not a cold or pollen, it’s the news from home." She handed Margaret a small newspaper clipping. "My sister, Jane, has been injured."