The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. One is always familiar with the business of one’s neighbours. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met.
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