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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
118
But
I
am
getting
on
too
fast,
in
describing
the
dresses
of
the
company.
I
should
first
relate
the
gathering
on
the
way
to
Mrs
Jamieson’s.
That
lady
lived
in
a
large
house
just
outside
the
town.
A
road
which
had
known
what
it
was
to
be
a
street
ran
right
before
the
house,
which
opened
out
upon
it
without
any
intervening
garden
or
court.
Whatever
the
sun
was
about,
he
never
shone
on
the
front
of
that
house.
To
be
sure,
the
living-rooms
were
at
the
back,
looking
on
to
a
pleasant
garden;
the
front
windows
only
belonged
to
kitchens
and
housekeepers’
rooms,
and
pantries,
and
in
one
of
them
Mr
Mulliner
was
reported
to
sit.
Indeed,
looking
askance,
we
often
saw
the
back
of
a
head
covered
with
hair
powder,
which
also
extended
itself
over
his
coat-collar
down
to
his
very
waist;
and
this
imposing
back
was
always
engaged
in
reading
the
St
James’s
Chronicle,
opened
wide,
which,
in
some
degree,
accounted
for
the
length
of
time
the
said
newspaper
was
in
reaching
us—
equal
subscribers
with
Mrs
Jamieson,
though,
in
right
of
her
honourableness,
she
always
had
the
reading
of
it
first.
This
very
Tuesday,
the
delay
in
forwarding
the
last
number
had
been
particularly
aggravating;
just
when
both
Miss
Pole
and
Miss
Matty,
the
former
more
especially,
had
been
wanting
to
see
it,
in
order
to
coach
up
the
Court
news
ready
for
the
evening’s
interview
with
aristocracy.
Miss
Pole
told
us
she
had
absolutely
taken
time
by
the
forelock,
and
been
dressed
by
five
o’clock,
in
order
to
be
ready
if
the
St
James’s
Chronicle
should
come
in
at
the
last
moment—
the
very
St
James’s
Chronicle
which
the
powdered
head
was
tranquilly
and
composedly
reading
as
we
passed
the
accustomed
window
this
evening.
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