Do not repeat
yourself.
REGINALD. Oh, bother! [He goes to the garden door and looks out
gloomily].
SOAMES [rising with the paper in his hands] Psha! [He tears it in
pieces]. So much for the contract!
THE VOICE OF THE BEADLE. By your leave there, gentlemen. Make way
for the Mayoress. Way for the worshipful the Mayoress, my lords
and gentlemen. [He comes in through the tower, in cocked hat and
goldbraided overcoat, bearing the borough mace, and posts himself
at the entrance]. By your leave, gentlemen, way for the
worshipful the Mayoress.
COLLINS [moving back towards the wall] Mrs George, my lord.
Mrs George is every inch a Mayoress in point of stylish dressing;
and she does it very well indeed. There is nothing quiet about
Mrs George; she is not afraid of colors, and knows how to make
the most of them. Not at all a lady in Lesbia's use of the term
as a class label, she proclaims herself to the first glance as
the triumphant, pampered, wilful, intensely alive woman who has
always been rich among poor people. In a historical museum she
would explain Edward the Fourth's taste for shopkeepers' wives.
Her age, which is certainly 40, and might be 50, is carried off
by her vitality, her resilient figure, and her confident
carriage.
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