Speech, for the moment, was absolutely impossible.
She stood and stared at him, her arms akimbo, disapproval written in her face.

Her hair was exceedingly untidy and there was a smut upon her cheek.

A soiled lace collar, fastened with an imitation diamond brooch, had burst asunder.
"What's come to your moustache ?" she demanded.

"And why are you dressed like--like a house-painter on a Sunday ?" Burton found his first gleam of consolation.

A newly-discovered sense of humor soothed him inexplicably.
"Sorry you don't like my clothes," he replied.