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Updated: May 2, 2025
Well, not a few of us have met an Amy Leffingwell: some plump-faced, pink- cheeked child, with a delicate little concave nose not at all "strong," and a fine little chin none too vigorously moulded, and a pair of timid candid blue eyes shadowed by a wisp or so of fluffy hair and have not always taken her for what she was.
She was a plump-faced and well-favoured British matron now, but once, many years before, as a slim young girl, she had been in love with somebody somebody whom by superior parental wisdom she was never allowed to marry, being put off instead with a well-connected match, young Mr. Clifford of the Colonial Office. That was all. No more romance than that. The common romance of every woman's heart.
If she failed in pleasing this glorious herald of peace, no matter by what small misadventure, she apprehended calamity; so there sat this fair dove with brows at work above her serious smiling blue eyes, covertly studying every aspect of the plump-faced epicure, that she might learn to propitiate him.
They were met at the door by a plump-faced lady of ample proportions who was evidently fighting a losing battle with a tendency toward embonpoint; and a slight, gray-haired one who stood poised upon the split puncheon that served as a door-step. "Ladies, this is Bill, the foreman of this camp. Mrs. Sheridan, Bill, and my wife."
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