Page 772 - bleak-house

cation was advancing, but not very rapidly.
‘And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley?’
‘I am not the messenger, if you please, miss,’ returned my
little maid. ‘It was W. Grubble, miss.’
‘And who is W. Grubble, Charley?’
‘Mister Grubble, miss,’ returned Charley. ‘Don’t you
know, miss? The Dedlock Arms, by W. Grubble,’ which
Charley delivered as if she were slowly spelling out the
sign.
‘Aye? The landlord, Charley?’
‘Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful
woman, but she broke her ankle, and it never joined. And
her brother’s the sawyer that was put in the cage, miss, and
they expect he’ll drink himself to death entirely on beer,’
said Charley.
Not knowing what might be the matter, and being eas-
ily apprehensive now, I thought it best to go to this place by
myself. I bade Charley be quick with my bonnet and veil
and my shawl, and having put them on, went away down
the little hilly street, where I was as much at home as in Mr.
Boythorn’s garden.
Mr. Grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door
of his very clean little tavern waiting for me. He lifted off his
hat with both hands when he saw me coming, and carrying
it so, as if it were an iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preced-
ed me along the sanded passage to his best parlour, a neat
carpeted room with more plants in it than were quite con-
venient, a coloured print of Queen Caroline, several shells,
a good many tea-trays, two stuffed and dried fish in glass

772 Bleak House