'Was it possible--could that mean-looking old man be Uncle Silas?'
The idea stunned me; but I almost instantly perceived that he was much too
small, and I was relieved, and even grateful. It was certainly an odd mode
of procedure to devote primary attention to the trunks and boxes, leaving
the travellers still shut up in the carriage, of which they were by this
time pretty well tired. I was not sorry for the reprieve, however: being
nervous about first impressions, and willing to defer mine, I sat shyly
back, peeping at the candle and moonlight picture before me, myself unseen.
'Will you tell--yes or no--is my cousin in the coach?' screamed the plump
young lady, stamping her stout black boot, in a momentary lull.
Yes, I was there, sure.
'And why the puck don't you let her out, you stupe, you?'
'Run down, Giblets, you never do nout without driving, and let Cousin Maud
out. You're very welcome to Bartram.' This greeting was screamed at an
amazing pitch, and repeated before I had time to drop the window, and say
'thank you.' 'I'd a let you out myself--there's a good dog, you would na'
bite Cousin' (the parenthesis was to a huge mastiff, who thrust himself
beside her, by this time quite pacified)--'only I daren't go down the
steps, for the governor said I shouldn't.
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