One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Not content with this exhibition of her prowess, the Amazon lifted him up as easily as if he had been an infant, and placed him upon her shoulders, to the infinite delight of the company, and the increased distress of his mother. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. She's plenty clean below. Someday I'll take you down there and have them rig up the coconut dance for you. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served.
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