"Pole," she said, fanning her cheek with vehement languor, "don't ask me! my heart's gone to the young fella." In pursuance of a determination to which the ladies of Brookfield had come, Adela, following her sprightly fancy, now gave the lead in affability toward Mrs.Chump.
"Has the conqueror run away with it to bury it ?" she laughed.
"Och! won't he know what it is to be a widde!" cried Mrs.Chump.

"A widde's heart takes aim and flies straight as a bullet; and the hearts o' you garls, they're like whiffs o' tobacca, curlin' and wrigglin' and not knowin' where they're goin'.

Marry 'em, Pole! marry 'em!" Mrs.Chump gesticulated, with two dangling hands.

"They're nice garls; but, lord! they naver see a man, and they're stuputly contented, and want to remain garls; and, don't ye see, it was naver meant to be?
Says I to Mr.
Wilfrud (and he agreed with me), ye might say, nice sour grapes, as well as nice garls, if the creatures think o' stoppin' where they are, and what they are.

It's horrud; and, upon my honour, my heart aches for 'm!" Mr.Pole threw an uneasy side-glance of inquisition at his daughters, to mark how they bore this unaccustomed language, and haply intercede between the unworthy woman and their judgement of her.