A Mob Is Usually A Creature Of

There Is Something Indefinably Keen And Wan About Her Anatomy, And She Has A Watchful Way Of Looking Out Of The Corners Of Her Eyes Without Turning Her Head Which Could Be Pleasantly Dispensed With, Especially When She Is In An Ill Humour And Near Knives. Through All The Good Taste Of Her Dress And Little Adornments, These Objections So Express Themselves That She Seems To Go About Like A Very Neat She-wolf Imperfectly Tamed.

I Don't Remember Who Was There, Except Dora. I Have Not The Least Idea What We Had For Dinner, Besides Dora. My Impression Is, That I Dined Off Dora, Entirely, And Sent Away Half-a-dozen Plates Untouched. I Sat Next To Her. I Talked To Her. She Had The Most Delightful Little Voice, The Gayest Little Laugh, The Pleasantest And Most Fascinating Little Ways, That Ever Led A Lost Youth Into Hopeless Slavery. She Was Rather Diminutive Altogether. So Much The More Precious, I Thought.

Nature Gives To Every Time And Season Some Beauties Of Its Own.

There Was A Little Plate Of Hothouse Nectarines On The Table, And There Was Another Of Grapes, And Another Of Sponge-cakes, And There Was A Bottle Of Light Wine ... 'this Is My Frugal Breakfast ... Give Me My Peach, My Cup Of Coffee, And My Claret.'

To Be Shelterless And Alone In The Open Country, Hearing The Wind Moan And Watching For Day Through The Whole Long Weary Night; To Listen To The Falling Rain, And Crouch For Warmth Beneath The Lee Of Some Old Barn Or Rick, Or In The Hollow Of A Tree; Are Dismal Things - But Not So Dismal As The Wandering Up And Down Where Shelter Is, And Beds And Sleepers Are By Thousands; A Houseless Rejected Creature.