Nothing escaped the restless eye of Madame.
'Wat is that, dear cheaile?' she enquired, drawing near and scrutinising
the head of the gipsy charm, which showed like a little ladybird newly
lighted on the sheet.
'Nothing--a charm--folly. Pray, Madame, allow me to go to sleep.'
So, with another look and a little twiddle between her finger and thumb,
she seemed satisfied; but, unhappily for me, she did not seem at all
sleepy. She busied herself in unpacking and displaying over the back of the
chair a whole series of London purchases--silk dresses, a shawl, a sort of
lace demi-coiffure then in vogue, and a variety of other articles.
The vainest and most slammakin of women--the merest slut at home,
a milliner's lay figure out of doors--she had one square foot of
looking-glass upon the chimneypiece, and therein tried effects, and
conjured up grotesque simpers upon her sinister and weary face.
I knew that the sure way to prolong this worry was to express my uneasiness
under it, so I bore it as quietly as I could; and at last fell fast asleep
with the gaunt image of Madame, with a festoon of grey silk with a cerise
stripe, pinched up in her finger and thumb, and smiling over her shoulder
across it into the little shaving-glass that stood on the chimney.
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