She wore a red blouse and a grey skirt, and the audacious high-heeled red slippers.

I began to feel the return of my early prejudice against her.

Nobody so alluring could possess a spark of virtue.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said I."I make many allowances for your lack of knowledge of our Western customs, but for a young lady to flirt with an ugly red-headed varlet of the lower orders is reprehensible all the world over." "He gave me dates and dried fruits with sugar all over them," said Carlotta.
"Stolen from his employer," I said.

"I will have that young man locked up in prison, and if you go on receiving his feloniously obtained presents they will put you in prison too, and I shall be delighted." Carlotta maintained her demure expression and extracted from her skirt pocket a very dirty piece of paper.
"He writes poetry--about me," she remarked, handing me what I recognised as the three-cornered note.
I took the thing between finger and thumb, and glanced over the poem.

I have read much indifferent modern verse in my time--I sometimes take a slush-bath after tea at the club--but I could not have imagined the English language capable of such emulsion.