The Old Woman

           

           OldStephendescendedthetwowhitesteps,shuttingtheblackdoorwiththebrazendoor-plate,bytheaidofthebrazenfull-stop,towhichhegaveapartingpolishwiththesleeveofhiscoat,observingthathishothandcloudedit.Hecrossedthestreetwithhiseyesbentupontheground,andthuswaswalkingsorrowfullyaway,whenhefeltatouchuponhisarm.

           Itwasnotthetouchheneededmostatsuchamomentthetouchthatcouldcalmthewildwatersofhissoul,astheupliftedhandofthesublimestloveandpatiencecouldabatetheragingoftheseayetitwasawoman’shandtoo.Itwasanoldwoman,tallandshapelystill,thoughwitheredbytime,onwhomhiseyesfellwhenhestoppedandturned.Shewasverycleanlyandplainlydressed,hadcountrymuduponhershoes,andwasnewlycomefromajourney.Theflutterofhermanner,intheunwontednoiseofthestreets;thespareshawl,carriedunfoldedonherarm;theheavyumbrella,andlittlebasket;thelooselong-fingeredgloves,towhichherhandswereunused;allbespokeanoldwomanfromthecountry,inherplainholidayclothes,comeintoCoketownonanexpeditionofrareoccurrence.Remarkingthisataglance,withthequickobservationofhisclass,StephenBlackpoolbenthisattentivefacehisface,which,likethefacesofmanyofhisorder,bydintoflongworkingwitheyesandhandsinthemidstofaprodigiousnoise,hadacquiredtheconcentratedlookwithwhichwearefamiliarinthecountenancesofthedeafthebettertohearwhatsheaskedhim.

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