Mills, as they left the house.
Elizabeth made some inarticulate answer: she was in the utmost dread
of meeting either of the curates, or worse still, her cousin Rupert
Merton, if he should chance to arrive that evening.
'Most interesting pursuit!' continued Mr. Mills, wishing to shew his
aunt how well he and his companion agreed. 'I am quite devoted to
it, always was! You are a classical scholar, I presume?'
Elizabeth was ready to wish she had never learnt to read: she fancied
she saw a figure like Rupert's at the other end of the street, and
was too much frightened to reply.
While they were traversing one street of the old town, crossing the
bridge over the little stream which flowed along the valley, and
walking along the principal street of the new town, Mr. Mills
continued to talk, and Elizabeth to echo the last word of each
sentence; or when that would not serve for a reply, she had recourse
to the simple interjection 'Oh!' that last refuge of listeners with
nothing to say. After a walk, which she thought was at least as many
miles in length as it was yards, they arrived at the Mechanics'
Institute, outside which they found sundry loiterers, and a strong
scent of tobacco; and inside some crowded benches, a table with some
chairs ranged round it, and a strong odour of gas.
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