The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and raising her eyebrows by a hair’s-breadth, as if her cousin Feenix were of all the mortal world the least to be regarded, turned her eyes again towards Mr Dombey.
“I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the neighbourhood,” she said.
“You have almost reason to be, Madam,” he replied, glancing at a variety of landscape drawings, of which he had already recognised several as representing neighbouring points of view, and which were strewn abundantly about the room, “if these beautiful productions are from your hand.”
She gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, quite amazing.
“Have they that interest?” said Mr Dombey. “Are they yours?”
“Yes.”
“And you play, I already know.”
“Yes.”
“And sing?”
“Yes.”