Chapter 1877 of 1964 · 60 words · ~1 min read

XLIX.

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, If she had any, was upon her face, And that was of a fascinating kind. A little turn for mischief you might trace Also thereon,--but that's not much; we find Few females without some such gentle leaven, For fear we should suppose us quite in Heaven.