But this treating servants as if they were exotic flowers, or china vases, is really ridiculous," said Marie, as she plunged languidly into the depths of a voluminous and pillowy lounge, and drew towards her an elegant cut-glass vinaigrette.
"You see," she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, like the last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something equally ethereal, "you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't often speak of myself.

It isn't my _habit_; 't isn't agreeable to me.

In fact, I haven't strength to do it.

But there are points where St.Clare and I differ.

St.Clare never understood me, never appreciated me.