She squeezed his hand.
I saw her do it.

At the rate at which things were now going on, I began to ask myself whether Reverend Finch would not appear at tea-time in his robes of office, and celebrate the marriage of his "sorely-tried" young friend between the first cup and the second.
At our little social assembly in the evening, nothing passed worthy of much remark.
Lucilla and I (I cannot resist recording this) were both beautifully dressed, in honor of the occasion; Mrs.Finch serving us to perfection, by way of contrast.

She had made an immense effort--she was half dressed.
Her evening costume was an ancient green silk skirt (with traces of past babies visible on it to an experienced eye), topped by the everlasting blue merino jacket.

"I lose everything belonging to me," Mrs.Finch whispered in my ear.

"I have got a body to this dress, and it can't be found anywhere." The rector's prodigious voice was never silent: the pompous and plausible little man talked, talked, talked, in deeper and deeper bass, until the very teacups on the table shuddered under the influence of him.