She holds out with
each hand a portion of her silk dress, as if she was walking a minuet,
and it discloses a snow-white petticoat, and such a dear little foot
and ankle--lick! Her step is short and mincing. She has a new bonnet
on, just imported by the last English steamer. It has a horrid name,
it is called a kiss-me-quick. It is so far back on her head, she is
afraid people will think she is bare-faced, so she casts her eyes
down, as much as to say, "Don't look at me, please, I am so pretty I
am afraid you will stare, and if you do I shall faint, as sure as the
world, and if you want to look at my bonnet, do pray go behind me, for
what there is of it is all there. It's a great trial to me to walk
alone, when I am so pretty." So she compresses her sweet lips with
such resolution, that her dear little mouth looks so small you'd think
it couldn't take in a sugar-plum. Oh, dear, here are some officers
approaching, for though she looks on the pavement she can see ahead
for all that. What is to be done. She half turns aside, half is
enough, to turn her back would be rude, and she looks up at a print or
a necklace, or something or another in a shop window, and it's a
beautiful attitude, and very becoming, and if they will stare, she is
so intent on the show glass, she can't see them, and won't faint, and
her little heart flutters as one of them says as he passes, "Devilish
pretty gall, that, Grant, who is she?" and then she resumes her walk,
and minces on.
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