A piano, harmoniously related to the dinner bell, tinkled responsive to a diffident and uncertain touch.

On the white wall the shadow of an old and sharp profile was bending over several symmetrical and shadowy curls.

"I sez to Mariar, Mariar, sez I, 'Praise to the face is open disgrace.'" I heard no more.

Dreading some susceptibility to sincere expression on the subject of female loveliness, I walked away, checking the compliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden to my lips, and have brought shame and sorrow to the household.
It was with the memory of these experiences resting heavily upon me that I stood hesitatingly before the stage door.

The driver, about to mount, was for a moment illuminated by the open door of the hotel.