It isn't
so much what she says--it's the way she says it, the tone and all
that, which makes you feel smaller and smaller until you could
crawl into your own watch pocket and live happily there ever after.
There'd be slews of room and when you wanted the air of an evening
you could climb up in a buttonhole of your vest and be quite cosy
and comfortable. But shrink as you may, there is now no hope of
escape, for she has reached out and grabbed you firmly by the
wrist. She has you fast. You have a feeling that eight or nine
thousand people have assembled behind you and are all gazing fixedly
into the small of your back. The only things about you that haven't
shrivelled up are your hands. You can feel them growing larger
and larger and redder and redder and more prominent and conspicuous
every instant.
The lady begins operations. You are astonished to note how many
tools and implements it takes to manicure a pair of hands properly.
The top of her little table is full of them and she pulls open a
drawer and shows you some more, ranged in rows.
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