A dark stranger came into Huntercombe village, no longer young, but
still a striking figure: had once, no doubt, been superlatively
handsome. Even now, his long hair was black and his eye could glitter:
but his life had impregnated his noble features with hardness and
meanness; his large black eye was restless, keen, and servile: an
excellent figure for a painter, though; born in Spain, he was not
afraid of color, had a red cap on his snaky black hair, and a striped
waistcoat.
He inquired for Mr. Meyrick's farm.
He soon found his way thither, and asked for Mrs. Meyrick.
The female servant who opened the door ran her eye up and down him, and
said, bruskly, "What do you want with her, my man? because she is
busy."
"Oh, she will see me, miss."
Softened by the "miss," the girl laughed, and said, "What makes you
think that, my man?"
"Give her this, miss," said the gypsy, "and she will come to me."
He held her out a dirty crumpled piece of paper.
Sally, whose hands were wet from the tub, whipped her hand under the
corner of her checkered apron, and so took the note with a finger and
thumb operating through the linen. By this means she avoided two
evils--her fingers did not wet the letter, and the letter did not dirty
her fingers.
She took it into the kitchen to her mistress, whose arms were deep in a
wash-tub.
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