leonardo da vinci the last supper

'Trot, my dear,' said my aunt, when she saw me making preparations for compounding her usual night-draught, 'No!' ¡¡¡¡'Nothing, aunt?' ¡¡¡¡'Not wine, my dear. Ale.' ¡¡¡¡'But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of wine.' ¡¡¡¡'Keep that, in case of sickness,' said my aunt. 'We mustn't use it carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.' ¡¡¡¡I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My aunt being resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing late, Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to the chandler's shop together. I parted from him, poor fellow, at the corner of the street,
his great kite at his back, a very monument of human misery. ¡¡¡¡My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returned, crimping the borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed the ale and made the toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was ready for her, she was ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt of her gown turned back on her knees. ¡¡¡¡'My dear,' said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; 'it's a great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.'