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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