eristic of grief is checked and varied in the subtlest manner, so as to present an interesting problem to the analytic mind. If, with a crushed heart and eyes half blinded by the mist of tears,Ben Hutton Tröjor, she were to walk with a too-devious step through a door-place,Anze Kopitar Tröjor, she might crush her buckram sleeves too,Gerry Cheevers Tröjor, and the deep consciousness of this possibility produces a composition of forces by which she takes a line that just clears the door-post. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly backward, a touching gesture, indicative,Laurent Brossoit Tröjor, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings will once more have a charm. As the tears subside a little, and with her head leaning backward at the angle that will not injure her bonnet, she endures that terrible moment when grief, which has made all things else a weariness,Belstaff Gangster Mit Jackor Jackor, has itself become weary; she looks down pensively at her bracelets, and adjusts their clasps with that pretty studied fortuity which would be gratifying to her mind if it were once more in a calm and healthy state.
Mrs. Pullet brushed each door-post with great nicety, about the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a woman was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard and a half across the shoulders), and having done that sent the muscles of her face in quest of fresh tears as she advanced into the parlor where Mrs. Glegg was seated.
“Well, sister,Marcus Foligno Tröjor, you’re late; what’s the matter?” said Mrs. Glegg,Jannik Hansen Tröjor, rather sharply, as they shook hands.
Mrs. Pullet sat down, lifting up her mantle carefully behind, before she answered —
“She’s gone,” unconsciously using an impressive figure of rhetoric.
“It isn’t the glass this time, then,T.J. Oshie Tröjor,” thought Mrs. Tulliver.
“Died the day before yesterday,” continued Mrs. Pullet; “an’ her legs was as thick as my body,”’ she added,Buty Jordan Retro 4, with deep sadness, after a pause. “They’d tapped her no end o’ times, and the water — they say you might ha’ swum in it, if you’d liked.”
“Well, Sophy, it’s a mercy she’s gone, then, whoever she may be,Vladislav Namestnikov Tröjor,” said Mrs. Glegg, with the promptitude and emphasis of a mind naturally clear and decided; “but I can’t think who you’re talking of, for my part.”
“But I know,” said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking her head; “and there isn’t another such a dropsy in the parish. I know as it’s old Mrs. Sutton o’ the Twentylands.”
“Well, she’s no kin o’ yours,Belstaff Glen Duff Racer, nor much acquaintance as I’ve ever heared of,Tiger Williams Tröjor,” said Mrs. Glegg, who always cried just as much as was proper when anything happened to her own “kin,” but not on other occasions.
“She’s so much acquaintance as I’ve seen her legs when they was like bladders. And an old lady as had doubled her money over and over again, and kept it all in her own management to the last, and had her pocket with her keys in under her pillow constant. There isn’t many old par_ish’ners like her, I doubt.”
“And they say she’d took
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