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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
57
“My
age!”
said
Miss
Matty,
almost
speaking
crossly,
for
her,
for
she
was
usually
gentle—
“My
age!
Why,
how
old
do
you
think
I
am,
that
you
talk
about
my
age?”
“Well,
ma’am,
I
should
say
you
were
not
far
short
of
sixty:
but
folks’
looks
is
often
against
them—
and
I’m
sure
I
meant
no
harm.”
“Martha,
I’m
not
yet
fifty-two!”
said
Miss
Matty,
with
grave
emphasis;
for
probably
the
remembrance
of
her
youth
had
come
very
vividly
before
her
this
day,
and
she
was
annoyed
at
finding
that
golden
time
so
far
away
in
the
past.
But
she
never
spoke
of
any
former
and
more
intimate
acquaintance
with
Mr
Holbrook.
She
had
probably
met
with
so
little
sympathy
in
her
early
love,
that
she
had
shut
it
up
close
in
her
heart;
and
it
was
only
by
a
sort
of
watching,
which
I
could
hardly
avoid
since
Miss
Pole’s
confidence,
that
I
saw
how
faithful
her
poor
heart
had
been
in
its
sorrow
and
its
silence.
She
gave
me
some
good
reason
for
wearing
her
best
cap
every
day,
and
sat
near
the
window,
in
spite
of
her
rheumatism,
in
order
to
see,
without
being
seen,
down
into
the
street.
He
came.
He
put
his
open
palms
upon
his
knees,
which
were
far
apart,
as
he
sat
with
his
head
bent
down,
whistling,
after
we
had
replied
to
his
inquiries
about
our
safe
return.
Suddenly
he
jumped
up—
“Well,
madam!
have
you
any
commands
for
Paris?
I
am
going
there
in
a
week
or
two.”
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