Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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