Polish yourself up, Madam; you had a pretty
wit once, a pleasant laugh, a conversation that was not confined
exclusively to the short-comings of servants, the wrong-doings of
tradesmen. My dear Madam, we do not live on spotless linen, and
crumbless carpets. Hunt out that bundle of old letters you keep
tied up in faded ribbon at the back of your bureau drawer--a pity
you don't read them oftener. He did not enthuse about your cuffs
and collars, gush over the neatness of your darning. It was your
tangled hair he raved about, your sunny smile (we have not seen it
for some years, Madam--the fault of the Cook and the Butcher, I
presume), your little hands, your rosebud mouth--it has lost its
shape, Madam, of late. Try a little less scolding of Mary Ann, and
practise a laugh once a day: you might get back the dainty curves.
It would be worth trying. It was a pretty mouth once.
Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a man's
heart was through his stomach? How many a silly woman, taking it
for truth, has let love slip out of the parlour, while she was busy
in the kitchen. Of course, if you were foolish enough to marry a
pig, I suppose you must be content to devote your life to the
preparation of hog's-wash.
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