Do not think that for one moment I have failed in paying you that tribute.

I often wish," pursued Miss Marty, somewhat incoherently, "that I had been born a man.

I trust the aspiration is not unwomanly.

I see you going about as if nothing were happening or likely to happen, and me all the while half dead in my bed, and hearing the clock strike and expecting it every moment.
As if the French weren't bad enough! And the Vicar may say what he likes, but when I hear you ordering up the green-sealed Madeira I know you're like me, and in your heart of hearts can't see much difference between it and the end of the world, for all the brave face you put on it.

Oh, I dare say it's different when one happens to be a man," wound up Miss Marty, "but what _I_ want to know is why couldn't we be let alone and go on comfortably ?" The Major rose and flicked a crumb or two from the knees of his pantaloons.