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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
125
“Yes,”
said
that
lady,
“such
lace
cannot
be
got
now
for
either
love
or
money;
made
by
the
nuns
abroad,
they
tell
me.
They
say
that
they
can’t
make
it
now
even
there.
But
perhaps
they
can,
now
they’ve
passed
the
Catholic
Emancipation
Bill.
I
should
not
wonder.
But,
in
the
meantime,
I
treasure
up
my
lace
very
much.
I
daren’t
even
trust
the
washing
of
it
to
my
maid”
(the
little
charity
school-girl
I
have
named
before,
but
who
sounded
well
as
“my
maid”).
“I
always
wash
it
myself.
And
once
it
had
a
narrow
escape.
Of
course,
your
ladyship
knows
that
such
lace
must
never
be
starched
or
ironed.
Some
people
wash
it
in
sugar
and
water,
and
some
in
coffee,
to
make
it
the
right
yellow
colour;
but
I
myself
have
a
very
good
receipt
for
washing
it
in
milk,
which
stiffens
it
enough,
and
gives
it
a
very
good
creamy
colour.
Well,
ma’am,
I
had
tacked
it
together
(and
the
beauty
of
this
fine
lace
is
that,
when
it
is
wet,
it
goes
into
a
very
little
space),
and
put
it
to
soak
in
milk,
when,
unfortunately,
I
left
the
room;
on
my
return,
I
found
pussy
on
the
table,
looking
very
like
a
thief,
but
gulping
very
uncomfortably,
as
if
she
was
half-choked
with
something
she
wanted
to
swallow
and
could
not.
And,
would
you
believe
it?
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