"Never again will I call that woman Aunt Caroline." "Don't call her fleshy, my dear, that's what really irritated her," remarked the Senator.

The Senator's discrimination, I have often noticed, is not the nicest thing about him.
Hours and hours it seemed to take, that drive to Pompeii.

Past the ambitious confectioner with his window full of cherry pies, each cherry round and red and shining like a marble, and the plate glass dry-goods store where ready-made costumes were displayed that looked as if they might fit just as badly as those of Westbourne Grove, and so by degrees and always down hill through narrower and shabbier streets where all the women walked bareheaded and the shops were mostly turned out on the pavement for the convenience of customers, and a good many of them went up and down in wheelbarrows.

And often through narrow ways so high-walled and many-windowed that it was quite cool and dusky down below, and only a strip of sun showed far up along the roofs of one side.

Here and there a wheelbarrow went strolling through these streets too, and we saw at least one family marketing.