I was picturesque and beautiful; its successor, so stiff, so heavy, makes a mere mannikin of me.

There was no want to which, its complaisance did not lend itself, for indigence is ever obsequious.

Was a book covered with dust, one of the lappets offered itself to wipe the dust away.

Did the thick ink refuse to flow from the pen, it offered a fold.

You saw traced in the long black lines upon it how many a service it had rendered me.