My appetite (oh, portent!) flags.

In intense excitement, who can eat yards of bread-and-butter, pounds of oatmeal-porridge, as has ever been my bucolic habit?
Shall I marry Sir Roger, or shall I not?
The birds, the crowing cocks, the church-bells, the gong for dinner, the old pony whinnying in the park, they all seem to say this.

It seems written on the sailing clouds, on the pages of every book that I open.

Armies of _pros_ wage battle against legions of _cons_, and every day the issue of the fight seems even more and more doubtful.
The morning of the day has arrived, and I am still undecided.

I dress in a perfect storm of doubts and questionings.