Cranford

“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.