"And that, too."
"You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks want filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside your aunt's, ma'am."
"Samplers are out of date—horribly countrified. No, Liddy, I'll read. Bring up some books—not new ones. I haven't heart to read anything new."
"Some of your uncle's old ones, ma'am?"
"Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes." A faint gleam of humour passed over her face as she said: Bring Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid's Tragedy;' and the 'Mourning Bride;' and—let me see—'Night Thoughts,' and the 'Vanity of Human Wishes.'"
"And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona? It is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now."
"Now, Lidd, you've been looking into my books, without telling me; and I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn't suit me at all."
"But if the others do———"
"No, they don't; and I won't read dismal books. Why should I read dismal books, indeed? Bring me 'Love in a Village,' and the Maid of the Mill,' and 'Doctor Syntax,' and some volumes of the 'Spectator.'"
