Sheila: ’Tricia, come and I’ll show you my sheep. Patricia: Your sheep? Sheila, what sheep? Sheila: My sheep. Patricia: Are you sure you said sheep? Sheila: Shh, don’t shout. Of course I’m sure I said sheep. She’s here in the shed. Isn’t she sweet? She was washed up on the shore at Shale Marsh. Patricia: What a shame! Is it unconscious? Sheila: She’s a she. I shall call her Sheba. I should think she’s suffering from shock. Patricia: Do you think she was pushed off that Persian ship? Oh Sheila, she’s shivering. Sheila: My precious! She shall have a soft cushion and my cashmere shawl! Patricia: She’s rather special, isn’t she? Sheila, I wish — oh, I do wish we could share her!