her very fibs when she told them—which was, in short, the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of a character otherwise not formed to keep.
I delegated the trouble of commenting on this "yes" to my countenance; or rather, my under-lip voluntarily anticipated my tongue: of course, reverence and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look I gave her.
"Scornful, sneering creature!" she went on, as we crossed a great square, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to the Rue Crécy.
"Nobody in this world was ever such a Turk to me as you are!"
"You bring it on yourself: let me alone: have the sense to be quiet: I will let you alone."
"As if one could let you alone, when you are so peculiar and so mysterious!"
"The mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your own brain—maggots—neither more nor less, be so good as to keep them out of my sight."
"But are you anybody?" persevered she, pushing her hand, in spite of me, under my arm; and that arm pressed itself with inhospitable closeness against my side, by way of keeping out the intruder.
