Such napery, such china, such sparkling and elegant glass, and such highly-polished plate.

Poor little Clara, the serving-maid, who had not yet acquired the knack of telling a lie with _sang froid_ absolutely trembled, as she spread out her snowy table-cloths, and laid her delicate china and glass and silver on the board.
"It don't seem worth while," she often remarked to the cook.

"For what's an' erring?
It seems wicked to eat an' erring off sech plates as them." "It's a way the quality have," retorted Mrs.Masters, who had come from London with the Bertrams and did not mean to stay.

"They heats nothing, and they lives on _sham_.

Call _this_ soup! There, Clara, you'll be a sham yourself before you has done with them." Clara thought this highly probable, but she was still young and romantic, and could do a great deal of living on make-beliefs, like many other girls all the world over.
As the Bertrams were eating their strawberries off delicate Sevres plates on the evening of the day when Mr.Ingram had disclosed the parentage of poor Beatrice Meadowsweet, the postman was seen passing the window.
Benjafield had a very slow and aggravating gait.