meant by "a woman's tongue."

At first it simply astonished her. How it was possible for one mortal
member to run on so long without a pause, and in such ugly and uneasy
paths--for the conversation was usually fault-finding of persons or
things--passed her comprehension. Then she felt a little weary, and
half wished that she, too, had a big book into which she could plunge
herself instead of having to sit there, politely smiling, saying "Yes,"
and "No," and "Certainly." At last she sank into a troubled silence tried
to listen as well as she could, and yet allow the other half of her mind to
wander away into some restful place, if any such place could be found.
The nearest approach to it was in that smooth, broad brow, and kindly
eyes, which were now and then lifted up from the foot of the table, out
of the mazes of the big book, at the secret of which Christian did not
wonder now.

And he had thus listened patiently to this mill-stream, or mill-clack, for
three weary years! Perhaps; for many another year before; but into that
Christian would not allow her lightest thoughts to penetrate: the sacred
veil of Death was over it all.

"If I can only make him happy!" This was already beginning to be her
prominent thought, and it warmed her heart that morning at this weary
breakfast table to hear him say,

"Christian, I don't know how you manage it, but I think I never had
such good tea in all my life as since you took it into your own hands
and out of Barker's."

"No doubt she makes tea very well," said Miss Gascoigne