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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
131
Miss
Pole
was
always
the
person,
in
the
trio
of
Cranford
ladies
now
assembled,
to
have
had
adventures.
She
was
in
the
habit
of
spending
the
morning
in
rambling
from
shop
to
shop,
not
to
purchase
anything
(except
an
occasional
reel
of
cotton
or
a
piece
of
tape),
but
to
see
the
new
articles
and
report
upon
them,
and
to
collect
all
the
stray
pieces
of
intelligence
in
the
town.
She
had
a
way,
too,
of
demurely
popping
hither
and
thither
into
all
sorts
of
places
to
gratify
her
curiosity
on
any
point—
a
way
which,
if
she
had
not
looked
so
very
genteel
and
prim,
might
have
been
considered
impertinent.
And
now,
by
the
expressive
way
in
which
she
cleared
her
throat,
and
waited
for
all
minor
subjects
(such
as
caps
and
turbans)
to
be
cleared
off
the
course,
we
knew
she
had
something
very
particular
to
relate,
when
the
due
pause
came—
and
I
defy
any
people
possessed
of
common
modesty
to
keep
up
a
conversation
long,
where
one
among
them
sits
up
aloft
in
silence,
looking
down
upon
all
the
things
they
chance
to
say
as
trivial
and
contemptible
compared
to
what
they
could
disclose,
if
properly
entreated.
Miss
Pole
began—
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