I go through all the old queries.

I again critically examine my face, and arrive--not only at the former conclusion, that one side is worse-looking than the other, but also that it looks ten years older.
I have my flax hair built in many strange and differing fashions, and again _un_built: piled high, to give me height; twisted low, in a vain endeavor to liken me to the Greeks; curled, plaited, frizzed, and again unfrizzed.

I institute a searching and critical examination of my wardrobe, rejecting this and that; holding one color against my cheek, to see whether my pallor will be able to bear it; turning away from another with a grimace of self-disgust.
And this is the same "_I_," who thought it so little worth while to win the good opinion of father's blear-eyed old friend, that I went to my first meeting with him with a scorched face, loose hair, tottering, all through prayers, on the verge of a descent about my neck, and a large round hole, smelling horribly of singeing, burnt in the very front of my old woolen frock.
His coming is near now.

This _very_ day I shall see him come in that door.

He will sit in that chair.