has been discoursing upon the afflictions of shopping.
She hates being compelled to buy anything against her will, but sometimes has to submit.
Enter the door, and three clerks immediately leap from the scabbard and ask "what is it? "Of course you immediately forget any intentions you might have had of buying anything, and before you have time to recall your senses, you find yourself listening to a running inventory of everything in the shop, with the prices, from a cotton handkerchief to a silken velvet cloak or dress.
if you are not a lunatic by that time, you make a feeble attempt to get out into the open sir, which praiseworthy effort is frustrated by a procession of clerks who accompany you down the store, such with a piece of goods over one arm, which they put and stroke with caressing fingers, and would be happy to know "if it is eleven or twelve yards you will need for your dress,"