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Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
239
Martha
was
beginning
to
go
about
again,
and
I
had
already
fixed
a
limit,
not
very
far
distant,
to
my
visit,
when
one
afternoon,
as
I
was
sitting
in
the
shop-parlour
with
Miss
Matty—
I
remember
the
weather
was
colder
now
than
it
had
been
in
May,
three
weeks
before,
and
we
had
a
fire
and
kept
the
door
fully
closed—
we
saw
a
gentleman
go
slowly
past
the
window,
and
then
stand
opposite
to
the
door,
as
if
looking
out
for
the
name
which
we
had
so
carefully
hidden.
He
took
out
a
double
eyeglass
and
peered
about
for
some
time
before
he
could
discover
it.
Then
he
came
in.
And,
all
on
a
sudden,
it
flashed
across
me
that
it
was
the
Aga
himself!
For
his
clothes
had
an
out-of-the-way
foreign
cut
about
them,
and
his
face
was
deep
brown,
as
if
tanned
and
re-tanned
by
the
sun.
His
complexion
contrasted
oddly
with
his
plentiful
snow-white
hair,
his
eyes
were
dark
and
piercing,
and
he
had
an
odd
way
of
contracting
them
and
puckering
up
his
cheeks
into
innumerable
wrinkles
when
he
looked
earnestly
at
objects.
He
did
so
to
Miss
Matty
when
he
first
came
in.
His
glance
had
first
caught
and
lingered
a
little
upon
me,
but
then
turned,
with
the
peculiar
searching
look
I
have
described,
to
Miss
Matty.
She
was
a
little
fluttered
and
nervous,
but
no
more
so
than
she
always
was
when
any
man
came
into
her
shop.
She
thought
that
he
would
probably
have
a
note,
or
a
sovereign
at
least,
for
which
she
would
have
to
give
change,
which
was
an
operation
she
very
much
disliked
to
perform.
But
the
present
customer
stood
opposite
to
her,
without
asking
for
anything,
only
looking
fixedly
at
her
as
he
drummed
upon
the
table
with
his
fingers,
just
for
all
the
world
as
Miss
Jenkyns
used
to
do.
Miss
Matty
was
on
the
point
of
asking
him
what
he
wanted
(as
she
told
me
afterwards),
when
he
turned
sharp
to
me:
“Is
your
name
Mary
Smith?”
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