This dame,
as she stepped with a long leg, in a black silk stocking, to the ground,
swept the front windows of the house from under her velvet hood with a
sharp and evil glance; and in fact she was Mistress Mary Matchwell.
As she beheld her, poor Mrs. Mack's heart fluttered up to her mouth, and
then dropped with a dreadful plump, into the pit of her stomach. The
dingy, dismal gentleman, swinging the red trunk in his hand, swaggered
lazily back and forward, to stretch his legs over the pavement, and air
his large cadaverous countenance, and sniff the village breezes.
Mistress Matchwell in the meantime, exchanging a passing word with the
servant, who darkened and drew back as if a ghost had crossed her,
gathered her rustling silks about her, and with a few long steps
noiselessly mounted the narrow stairs, and stood, sallow and terrible in
her sables, before the poor gentlewoman.
With two efforts Mrs. Mack got up and made a little, and then a great
courtesy, and then a little one again, and tried to speak, and felt very
near fainting.
'See,' says Mary Matchwell, 'I must have twenty pounds--but don't take
on.
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