It was beautifully printed and bound, and beautifully written in "precious" English, but its perusal did not seem to afford her any satisfaction.
Her attention wandered, and every now and then she looked at the door as though expecting someone to enter.

Mrs.Octagon disapproved of Juliet's pale cheeks and want of attention to her own fascinating conversation, so, when alone, she took the opportunity to correct her.
"My child," said Mrs.Octagon, who always spoke in a tragic manner, and in a kind of blank-verse way, "to me it seems your cheeks are somewhat pale." "I had no sleep last night," said Juliet, throwing down the book.
"Your thoughts concerned themselves with Cuthbert's face, no doubt, my love," said her mother fondly.
"No, I was not thinking of him.

I was worried about--about--my new dress," she finished, after vainly casting about for some more sensible reason.
"How foolish children are.

You trouble about your dress when you should have been thinking of the man who loves you." "Does Cuthbert love me ?" asked Juliet, flushing.
"As Romeo loved your namesake, sweetest child.

And a very good match it is too," added Mrs.Octagon, relapsing into prose.