"The first because she met one of those great dancing bears--they shouldn't be allowed; the other--it was a horrid story--our cook had a child and there was a dinner party.

So I put my dyspepsia down to that." "And a miscarriage is so much worse than a confinement," Mrs.Thornbury murmured absentmindedly, adjusting her spectacles and picking up _The_ _Times_.

Mrs.Elliot rose and fluttered away.
When she had heard what one of the million voices speaking in the paper had to say, and noticed that a cousin of hers had married a clergyman at Minehead--ignoring the drunken women, the golden animals of Crete, the movements of battalions, the dinners, the reforms, the fires, the indignant, the learned and benevolent, Mrs.Thornbury went upstairs to write a letter for the mail.
The paper lay directly beneath the clock, the two together seeming to represent stability in a changing world.

Mr.Perrott passed through; Mr.Venning poised for a second on the edge of a table.

Mrs.Paley was wheeled past.