“I am. “We are the species,” said Miss Miniver, “men are only incidents. First, look at this glove. You have been to see your sister, of course. Gosse must now fight with his back to the altar, and a dais at his heels. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. But that is men all over. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered.
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