“Papp-paah!” says my daughter.
“You intolerable man!” says my wife.
“You abominable creature!” says my wife's eldest sister, “you wicked wretch!”
“Oh Mr. Author,” says Miss Graveairs, “I did not expect this from you.”
“Very well, Sir, very well! This is like you!” says the Bow-Begum.
“Was there ever such an atrocious libel upon the sex,” says the Lady President of the Celestial Blues.
The Ladies of the Stocking unanimously agree in the sentence of condemnation.
Let me see, who do I know among them. There is Mrs. Lapis Lazuli and her daughter Miss Ultramarine,—there is Mrs. Bluestone, the most caustic of female critics, and her friend Miss Gentian,—Heaven protect me from the bitterness of her remarks,—there is Lady Turquoise, Lady Celestina Sky, the widow Bluebeard, Miss Mazarine, and that pretty creature Serena Cerulean, it does me good to look at her, she is the blue-bell of the party. There is Miss Sapphire, Miss Priscilla Prussian, Mrs. Indigo, and the Widow Woad. And Heaven knows who beside. Mercy on me—it were better to be detected at the mysteries of the Bona Dea, than be found here! Hear them how they open in succession—
Infamous!