She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly.
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