he looked
at me with
his glass
in his
hand, and
rolling
his wine
about in
his mouth,
as if
requesting
me to take
notice
that it
was of no
use, for
he
couldn’t
answer. I
think Miss
Pocket was
conscious
that the
sight of
me
involved
her in the
danger of
being
goaded to
madness,
and
perhaps
tearing
off her
cap, –
which was
a very
hideous
one, in
the nature
of a
muslin
mop, – and
strewing
the ground
with her
hair, –
which
assuredly
