We collected art glass.

A drop serene hath quenched their orbs.

“Well,” he said, “if I can't have a Buick, I'll at least have a son.” When I was born, he very quickly saw that I was a scrawny, squally baby girl. I was not a Buick, and I was not his son.

Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you will always be disappointed.