The bitter creature drew me at her heels into a linendraper's shop. There she took a seat, pitched her voice to the key of a lady's at a dinner-table, when speaking to her cavalier of the history or attire of some one present, and said, 'You are sure the illness was not at all feigned?'
She had me as completely at her mercy in this detestable shop as if I had been in a witness-box.
'Feigned!' I exclaimed.
'That is no answer. And pray remember where you are.'
'No, the illness was not feigned.'
'And you have not made the most of it?'
'What an extraordinary thing to say!'
'That is no answer. And please do not imagine yourself under the necessity of acting every sentiment of your heart before these people.'
She favoured a shopman with half-a-dozen directions.
'My answer is, then, that I have not made the most of it,' I said.