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With all those yearnings, and gushings, and impulsive throbbings that we have implanted in our souls, and which are so very charming, why are we not more natural? Mr Dombey said it was very true, very true. 'We could be more natural I suppose if we tried? said Mrs Skewton. Mr Dombey thought it possible. 'Devil a bit, Ma'am, said the Major. 'We couldn't afford it.
'Your regards, Edith, my dear? said Mrs Skewton, pausing, pen in hand, at the postscript. 'What you will, Mama, she answered, without turning her head, and with supreme indifference.
Withers the Wan, at this period, handing round the tea, Mr Dombey again addressed himself to Edith. 'There is not much company here, it would seem? said Mr Dombey, in his own portentous gentlemanly way. 'I believe not. We see none. 'Why really, observed Mrs Skewton from her couch, 'there are no people here just now with whom we care to associate.
Loves and Cupids took to flight afraid, and Martyrdom had no such torment in its painted history of suffering. Nevertheless, Mrs Skewton was so charmed by the sight to which Mr Carker invoked her attention, that she could not refrain from saying, half aloud, how sweet, how very full of soul it was! Edith, overhearing, looked round, and flushed indignant scarlet to her hair.
When the carriage was closed, and the wind shut out, the palsy played among the artificial roses again like an almshouse-full of superannuated zephyrs; and altogether Mrs Skewton had enough to do, and got on but indifferently. 'What do you mean? asked Edith. 'Well, Ma'am, replied the frightened maid, 'I hardly know. She's making faces! Edith hurried with her to her mother's room.
But Mrs Skewton tried it on with mincing satisfaction; smirked at her cadaverous self in the glass, as she thought of its killing effect upon the Major; and suffering her maid to take it off again, and to prepare her for repose, tumbled into ruins like a house of painted cards. All this time, Edith remained at the dark window looking out into the street.
'My Lady, don't believe her, croaked the old woman to Mrs Skewton; 'don't believe what she says. She loves to talk like that. She's my handsome and undutiful daughter. She gives me nothing but reproaches, my Lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my Lady, how she turns upon her poor old mother with her looks.
Mrs Skewton then told Florence, as another and safer diversion, that her father was coming to dinner, and that he would no doubt be charmingly surprised to see her; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the City, and had known nothing of Edith's design, the execution of which, according to Mrs Skewton's expectation, would throw him into a perfect ecstasy.
But the gentleman, he give me something! Oh, bless him, bless him! mumbled the old woman, holding up her skinny hand, and grinning frightfully at her daughter. 'It's of no use attempting to stay me, Edith! said Mrs Skewton, angrily anticipating an objection from her. 'You know nothing about it. I won't be dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a good mother.
'Stop a moment, Withers! said Mrs Skewton, as the chair began to move; calling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she had called in days of yore to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower nosegay, and silk stockings. 'Where are you staying, abomination? The Major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with his friend Dombey.
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