Give us thy fist. I may as
well out wi' it. I've gotten one mysen. Pour some more hot water in
here, then."
THE TIGHT HAND
I
The tight hand was Mrs Garlick's. A miser, she was not the ordinary
miser, being exceptional in the fact that her temperament was joyous.
She had reached the thirtieth year of her widowhood and the sixtieth of
her age, with cheerfulness unimpaired. The people of Bursley, when they
met her sometimes of a morning coming down into the town from her
singular house up at Toft End, would be conscious of pleasure in her
brisk gait, her slightly malicious but broad-minded smile, and her
cheerful greeting. She was always in black. She always wore one of those
nodding black bonnets which possess neither back nor front, nor any clue
of any kind to their ancient mystery. She always wore a mantle which hid
her waist and spread forth in curves over her hips; and as her skirts
stuck stiffly out, she thus had the appearance of one who had been to
sleep since 1870, and who had got up, thoroughly refreshed and bright,
into the costume of her original period. She always carried a reticule.
It was known that she suffered from dyspepsia, and this gave real value
to her reputation for cheerfulness.
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