What on earth put it in your head?
Work like that is only for horny hands." "Your hands ain't horny, Cousin Godfrey.

They may be a little harder than mine--they wouldn't be much good if they weren't--but they're no fitter by nature to clean stirrups.

Is it for me to sit with mine in my lap, and yours at this?
I know better." "Why shouldn't I clean my own harness, Letty, if I like ?" said Godfrey, who could not help feeling pleased as well as annoyed; in this one moment Letty had come miles nearer him.
"Oh, surely! if you like, Cousin Godfrey," she answered; "but do you like ?" "Better than to see you doing it." "But not better than I like to do it; that I am sure of.

It is hands that write poetry that are not fit for work like this." "How do you know I write poetry ?" asked Godfrey, displeased, for she touched here a sensitive spot.
"Oh, don't be angry with me!" she said, letting the stirrup fall on the floor, and clasping her great wash-leather gloves together; "I couldn't help seeing it was poetry, for it lay on the table when I went to do your room." "Do my room, Letty! Does my mother-- ?" "She doesn't want to make a fine lady of me, and I shouldn't like it if she did.

I have no head, but I have pretty good hands.