“She thinks she’s a lady.†And then he grinned until the very lake seemed to be in danger of engulfment. “Oh, dear!†the poor thing. Tries hard, and the more she tries, the less she Ha! ha! ha! Take it from me, Fuchsia dear, The only ladies are those to whom the idea of whether they are or not never occurs. Her blood’s all right—Irma’s—same as mine, ha, ha, ha! but it doesn’t go by blood. It’s equipoise, my Gipsy, equipoise that does it—with a bucketful of tolerance thrown in.
Mervyn Peake