We have a table-cloth with fringed borders for tea on Sunday afternoons.

She hates flowers because they mess up the rooms so, but she adorns our parlor with wool-work mementoes, artificial roses under a glass case, and crockery neatly inscribed with the name of some seaside place." Mr.Waddington wiped the perspiration from his forehead and produced a small silver casket from his waistcoat pocket.
"Stop!" he begged.

"You win! I can see what you are aiming at.

Here is a bean." Burton waved it away.
"Listen," he proceeded.

"I have also a child--a little son.