CHAPTER XXXI. Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely. It’s not you—not a bit. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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