Our great minister was placing a button on his shirt. His trembling fingers were uncertain.
I snatched the shirt from his hand and exhibited my craft with the needle.
“I fancied that you modern girls were perfect strangers to the needle,” he said.
He is not blockish, I thought, since he permits himself to employ irony.
My uncle was lamenting that he had not even one cigar left.
Both those gentlemen offered to help me in my dressing at the landing.
I declined gracefully.
Where is my looking-glass?
I must present myself very—very pretty.