'No Adorable at the club! A waste, a waste, a waste, my Twemlow!' And so drops asleep, and has galvanic starts all over him.
Betimes next morning, that horrible old Lady Tippins (relict of the late Sir Thomas Tippins, knighted in mistake for somebody else by His Majesty King George the Third, who, while performing the ceremony, was graciously pleased to observe, 'What, what, what?
Who, who, who?
Why, why, why ?') begins to be dyed and varnished for the interesting occasion.

She has a reputation for giving smart accounts of things, and she must be at these people's early, my dear, to lose nothing of the fun.

Whereabout in the bonnet and drapery announced by her name, any fragment of the real woman may be concealed, is perhaps known to her maid; but you could easily buy all you see of her, in Bond Street; or you might scalp her, and peel her, and scrape her, and make two Lady Tippinses out of her, and yet not penetrate to the genuine article.

She has a large gold eye-glass, has Lady Tippins, to survey the proceedings with.

If she had one in each eye, it might keep that other drooping lid up, and look more uniform.