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Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
138
“That’s
not
Signor
Brunoni!”
said
Miss
Pole
decidedly;
and
so
audibly
that
I
am
sure
he
heard,
for
he
glanced
down
over
his
flowing
beard
at
our
party
with
an
air
of
mute
reproach.
“Signor
Brunoni
had
no
beard—
but
perhaps
he’ll
come
soon.”
So
she
lulled
herself
into
patience.
Meanwhile,
Miss
Matty
had
reconnoitred
through
her
eye-glass,
wiped
it,
and
looked
again.
Then
she
turned
round,
and
said
to
me,
in
a
kind,
mild,
sorrowful
tone—
“You
see,
my
dear,
turbans
are
worn.”
But
we
had
no
time
for
more
conversation.
The
Grand
Turk,
as
Miss
Pole
chose
to
call
him,
arose
and
announced
himself
as
Signor
Brunoni.
“I
don’t
believe
him!”
exclaimed
Miss
Pole,
in
a
defiant
manner.
He
looked
at
her
again,
with
the
same
dignified
upbraiding
in
his
countenance.
“I
don’t!”
she
repeated
more
positively
than
ever.
“Signor
Brunoni
had
not
got
that
muffy
sort
of
thing
about
his
chin,
but
looked
like
a
close-shaved
Christian
gentleman.”
Miss
Pole’s
energetic
speeches
had
the
good
effect
of
wakening
up
Mrs
Jamieson,
who
opened
her
eyes
wide,
in
sign
of
the
deepest
attention—
a
proceeding
which
silenced
Miss
Pole
and
encouraged
the
Grand
Turk
to
proceed,
which
he
did
in
very
broken
English—
so
broken
that
there
was
no
cohesion
between
the
parts
of
his
sentences;
a
fact
which
he
himself
perceived
at
last,
and
so
left
off
speaking
and
proceeded
to
action.
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