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About half-past twelve she seemed to be trying to speak, and they leaned to catch her words. 'Music music didn't you hear it? Amos knelt by the bed and held her hand in his. He did not believe in his sorrow. It was a bad dream. He did not know when she was gone. But Mr. Brand, whom Mrs. Hackit had sent for before twelve o'clock, thinking that Mr.
Hackit, sticking one thumb between the buttons of his capacious waistcoat, and retaining a pinch of snuff with the other for he was but moderately given to 'the cups that cheer but not inebriate', and had already finished his tea; 'they began to sing the wedding psalm for a new-married couple, as pretty a psalm an' as pretty a tune as any in the prayer-book.
Gilfil looked like a 'furriner, wi' such eyes, you can't think, an' a voice as went through you when she sung at church. The one exception was Mrs. Patten, whose strong memory and taste for personal narrative made her a great source of oral tradition in Shepperton. Mr. Hackit, who had not come into the parish until ten years after Mrs. Gilfil's death, would often put old questions to Mrs.
Hackit to her husband, 'a-going among strangers, and into a nasty town, where there's no good victuals to be had, and you must pay dear to get bad uns. Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of a town life as a combination of dirty backyards, measly pork, and dingy linen. The same sort of sympathy was strong among the poorer class of parishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr.
I talked of Border ballads and Lord Wardens of the marches, and endeavoured to draw him on the subject, but he made no response. Then I sang softly 'As I went down the water side None but my foe to be my guide. Hereat his eyes flashed, and he responded with extended fist: 'I lighted down, my sword did draw I hackit him in pieces sma'.
Hackit to beg a bit of old crape, and with this sign of grief pinned on her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was seen dropping her curtsy opposite the reading-desk. This manifestation of respect towards Mr. Gilfil's memory on the part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing whatever.
Hackit, a shrewd, substantial man, 'who was fond of soothing the acerbities of the feminine mind by a jocose compliment. Where but in George Eliot would you get a tea-party described with such charming acceptance of whim?
How nice she keeps her children! and little enough money to do't with; and a delicate creatur' six children, and another a-coming. I don't know how they make both ends meet, I'm sure, now her aunt has left 'em. But I sent 'em a cheese and a sack o' potatoes last week; that's something towards filling the little mouths. 'Ah! said Mr. Hackit, 'and my wife makes Mr.
Hackit expressed herself greatly edified by the sermon on honesty, the allusion to the unjust weight and deceitful balance having a peculiar lucidity for her, owing to a recent dispute with her grocer; but I am not aware that she ever appeared to be much struck by the sermon on anger. As to any suspicion that Mr.
But he never contradicted Mrs. Hackit a woman whose 'pot-luck' was always to be relied on, and who on her side had unlimited reliance on bleeding, blistering, and draughts. Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation, and had no reasons for suppressing it. 'Well, she remarked, 'I've heared of no good from interfering with one's neighbours, poor or rich.
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