She regarded her niece as walking--or, more truly, pirouetting aggressively--along the road which leads to destruction.
Penelope folded a pair of renovated stockings and tossed them into her work-basket.
"The Seymours want us to dine there on Thursday.

I suppose you can ?" she asked.
"With all the pleasure in life.

Their chef is a dream," murmured Nan reminiscently.
"As though you cared!" scoffed Penelope.
Nan lit a cigarette and seated herself on the humpty-dumpty cushion by the fire.
"But I do care--extremely." she averred.

"It isn't my little inside which cares.

It's a purely external feeling which likes to have everything just right.