Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when I went into the parlour where he was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silently, and pondering in his elbow-chair.
Miss Murdstone, who was busy at her writing-desk, which was covered with letters and papers, gave me her cold finger-nails, and asked me, in an iron whisper, if I had been measured for my mourning.
I said: ‘Yes.’
‘And your shirts,’ said Miss Murdstone; ‘have you brought ‘em home?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I have brought home all my clothes.’
This was all the consolation that her firmness administered to me.
I do not doubt that she had a choice pleasure in exhibiting what she called her self-command,