“Oh,” says I, wantin’ to make myself agreeable (both on account of principle, and the lawsuit), “the skirts are beautiful but I can’t judge how the hull dress looks, you know, till you get your waist on.”
“My waist?” says she.
“Yes,” says I.
“I have got it on,” says she.
“Where is it?” says I, a lookin’ at her closer through my specks, “Where is the waist?”
“Here,” says she, a pintin’ to a pink belt ribbon, and a string of beads over each shoulder.
Says I, “Miss Flamm, do you call that a waist?”
“Yes,” says she, and she balanced herself on her little pink tottlin’ slippers. She couldn’t walk in ’em a good honerable walk to save her life. How could she, with the instep not over two inches acrost, and the heels right under the middle of her foot, more’n a finger high? Good land, they wuz enuff to lame a Injun savage, and curb him in. But she sort o’ balanced herself unto ’em, the best she could, and put her hands round her waist—it wuzn’t much bigger than a pipe-stem, and sort o’ bulgin’ out both ways, above and below, some like a string tied tight round a piller, - and says she complacently, “I don’t believe there will be a dress shown to-night more stylish and beautiful than mine.”
Says I, “Do you tell me, Miss Flamm, that you are a goin’ down into that crowd of promiscus men and women, with nothin’ but them strings on to cover you?” Says I, “Do you tell me that, and you a perfesser and a Christian?”