In the same moment, sundry
other casements opened, and all the heads in the vicinity--including the
blacksmith Chuffs, and Mrs. Chuff's--were thrust out to condole with
their neighbour, Mrs. Peckaby.
"Had she been and come back a'ready?" "Did she get tired of the saints
so soon as this--or did they get tired of her?" "What sort of a city,
was it?" "Which was most plentiful--geese or sage?" "How many wives,
besides herself, had the gentleman that _she_ chose?" "Who took care of
the babies?" "Did they have many public dances?" "Was veils for the
bonnets all the go?" "Was it a paradise or warn't it?" "And how was
Brother Jarrum?"
Amongst the many questions asked, those came prominently, tingling on
the ears of the unhappy Mrs. Peckaby. Too completely prostrate with
events to retort, she suddenly let drop her gown, that she had kept so
carefully turned, and clapped both her hands upon her face. Then came a
real, genuine question from the next door casement--Mrs. Green's.
"Ain't that your plum-coloured gownd? What's come to it?"
Mrs. Peckaby, somewhat aroused, looked at the gown in haste.
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