"Olivia, here, take this handkerchief away, take the horrid thing away. I believe my soul somebody has touched it after it was ironed. Do take it away," and the poor victim of concentrated, double extract of human extravagance, almost fainted and fell back upon her lounge, in a fit of abhorrence at the idea of her mouchoir being touched, tossed, or opened, after it entered her camphorated drawers in her highly-perfumed boudoir.
"Olivia!"
"Yes'm," was the response of the fine, ruddy, and wholesome looking maid.
"Olivia, put on your gloves."
"Yes'm."
"Go down to Mrs. Brown's," she faintly says—"tell her to come here this very day."
"Yes'm."
"Olivia!"
"Yes'm," replied the fine-eyed, real woman.
"Got your gloves on?"