I have been up in the garret looking over things, and there's one chest up there packed with the most elegant clothes.

I never saw such dresses in my life." Henry looked at his wife with eyes which loved her face, yet saw it as it was, elderly and plain, with all its youthful bloom faded.
"I don't suppose there is anything that will suit you to have made over," he said.

"I suppose they are dresses she had when she was young." Sylvia colored.

She tossed her head and threw back her round shoulders.

Feminine vanity dies hard; perhaps it never dies at all.
"I don't know," she said, defiantly.