Page 967 - bleak-house

in her nature when envious eyes are looking on to yield or
to droop. They say of her that she has lately grown more
handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says
of her that she’s beauty nough—tsetup shopofwomen—but
rather larming kind—remindingmanfact—inconvenient
woman—who WILL getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment—
Shakespeare.
Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as
heretofore, he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his
limp white cravat loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie,
receiving patronage from the peerage and making no sign.
Of all men he is still the last who might be supposed to have
any influence upon my Lady. Of all woman she is still the
last who might be supposed to have any dread of him.
One thing has been much on her mind since their late
interview in his turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now
decided, and prepared to throw it off.
It is morning in the great world, afternoon according
to the little sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out
of window, are reposing in the hall and hang their heavy
heads, the gorgeous creatures, like overblown sunflowers.
Like them, too, they seem to run to a deal of seed in their
tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester, in the library, has fallen
asleep for the good of the country over the report of a Par-
liamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room in which
she gave audience to the young man of the name of Guppy.
Rosa is with her and has been writing for her and reading
to her. Rosa is now at work upon embroidery or some such
pretty thing, and as she bends her head over it, my Lady

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