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Updated: July 7, 2025
"Well now," said Mrs Pinhorn, "I will say Lilac looks as peart and neat as a little bit of waxworks." "She wants colour, to my thinking," said Mrs Greenways, to whom this was addressed. The Greenways stood a little aloof from the general crowd, dressed with great elegance. Bella rather looked down on the whole affair.
For the twentieth time Mrs Wishing was entering slowly and fully into every detail connected with it of all the doctor had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said herself, of all Mr Leigh had said; and if she paused a moment Mrs Pinhorn at once asked another question.
"And how does the name strike you, Mr Snell?" said Mrs Pinhorn, turning to a newcomer. He was an oldish man, short and broad-shouldered, with a large head and serious grey eyes. Not only his leather apron, but the ends of his stumpy fingers, which were discoloured and brown, showed that he was a cobbler by trade.
He had been put in mind of what Doctor Franklin had said long ago, one evening in Albany, of his struggle against the faults and follies of his youth. For a moment Mr. Pinhorn was dumb with astonishment. "Nevertheless, sir, I hold to my convictions," he said. "Of course you do," Mr. Adams answered.
"I've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said Bella, looking mournfully at the plate in Myra's Journal, "so now I'm ever so much worse off than I was afore. Lor', Peter!" she added, as her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine and them boots. You look for all the world like Ben Pinhorn, there ain't a pin to choose between you."
The news even reached Lenham, carried by the active legs and eager tongue of Mrs Pinhorn, who, with many significant nods, as of one who could tell more if she chose, gave Mr Benson to understand that he might shortly find a difference in the butter.
Pinhorn had the supreme shrewdness of recognising from time to time the cases in which an article was not too bad only because it was too good. There was nothing he loved so much as to print on the right occasion a thing he hated. I had begun my visit to the great man on a Monday, and on the Wednesday his book came out.
I had simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begun when I received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn. Mr. Pinhorn was my "chief," as he was called in the office: he had the high mission of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical, which had been supposed to be almost past redemption when he took hold of it. It was Mr.
"There's a deal in what Mrs Greenways's just been saying too," remarked the woman called Mrs Wishing in a hesitating voice, "for Mrs James White is a very strict woman and holds herself high, and `Lilac' is a fanciful kind of a name; but I dunno." She broke off as if feeling incapable of dealing with the question. "I can't wonder myself," resumed Mrs Pinhorn, "at Mrs Greenways being a bit touchy.
They were also gray like his eyes. After the stage had started this man turned to Jack and asked: "What is your name, boy?" "John Irons." The man opened his eyes wider and drew in his breath between parted lips as if he had heard a most astonishing fact. "My name is Pinhorn, sir Eliphalet Pinhorn," he reciprocated. "I have been visiting my wife in Newark."
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