Gets worse and worse.

I 'll carry it up myself.' With a wheezy effort he persuaded the trunk to stand on one end, and then looked at it.

The exertion made him hot, which may account for the rage he burst into when Mrs.Hawkshaw began flutteringly to apologize.
'You're sure, ma'am, sure--what are you sure of?
I'll tell you what I am sure of--eh?
This keeping clear of men's a damned pretence.

You don't impose upon me.

Don't believe in your pothouse nunneries--not a bit.
Just like you! when you are virtuous it's deuced inconvenient.