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Updated: May 27, 2025
'If you please, ma'am, Hexam said they were going to see his sister. 'But that can't be, I think, returned Miss Peecher: 'because Mr Headstone can have no business with HER. Mary Anne again hailed. 'Well, Mary Anne? 'If you please, ma'am, perhaps it's Hexam's business? 'That may be, said Miss Peecher. 'I didn't think of that. Not that it matters at all. Mary Anne again hailed.
There, one of neat Miss Peecher's little windows, like the eyes in needles, was illuminated, and in a corner near it sat Mary Anne watching, while Miss Peecher at the table stitched at the neat little body she was making up by brown paper pattern for her own wearing. N.B. Miss Peecher and Miss Peecher's pupils were not much encouraged in the unscholastic art of needlework, by Government.
He rose so early that it was not yet light when he began his journey. Before extinguishing the candle by which he had dressed himself, he made a little parcel of his decent silver watch and its decent guard, and wrote inside the paper: 'Kindly take care of these for me. He then addressed the parcel to Miss Peecher, and left it on the most protected corner of the little seat in her little porch.
'Ours is rather on business than mere pleasure, said the Master. Miss Peecher inverting her watering-pot, and very carefully shaking out the few last drops over a flower, as if there were some special virtue in them which would make it a Jack's beanstalk before morning, called for replenishment to her pupil, who had been speaking to the boy. 'Good-night, Miss Peecher, said the Master.
It came out in Miss Peecher the schoolmistress, watering her flowers, as Mr Bradley Headstone walked forth. It came out in Miss Peecher the schoolmistress, watering the flowers in the little dusty bit of garden attached to her small official residence, with little windows like the eyes in needles, and little doors like the covers of school-books.
For, oftentimes when school was not, and her calm leisure and calm little house were her own, Miss Peecher would commit to the confidential slate an imaginary description of how, upon a balmy evening at dusk, two figures might have been observed in the market-garden ground round the corner, of whom one, being a manly form, bent over the other, being a womanly form of short stature and some compactness, and breathed in a low voice the words, 'Emma Peecher, wilt thou be my own? after which the womanly form's head reposed upon the manly form's shoulder, and the nightingales tuned up.
Small, shining, neat, methodical, and buxom was Miss Peecher; cherry-cheeked and tuneful of voice. A little pincushion, a little housewife, a little book, a little workbox, a little set of tables and weights and measures, and a little woman, all in one.
'Who gave her that name? Miss Peecher was going on, from the mere force of habit, when she checked herself; on Mary Anne's evincing theological impatience to strike in with her godfathers and her godmothers, and said: 'I mean of what name is it a corruption? 'Elizabeth, or Eliza, Miss Peecher. 'Right, Mary Anne.
'And where, pursued Miss Peecher, complacent in her little transparent fiction of conducting the examination in a semiofficial manner for Mary Anne's benefit, not her own, 'where does this young woman, who is called but not named Lizzie, live? Think, now, before answering. 'In Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill Bank, ma'am.
'No, thank you, Mr Headstone; I'll not trouble you. 'You couldn't trouble me, said the schoolmaster. 'Ah! returned Miss Peecher, though not aloud; 'but you can trouble ME! And for all her quiet manner, and her quiet smile, she was full of trouble as he went his way. She was right touching his destination.
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