When the dinner-things were washed up, when the hearth was
swept and the kettle on the fire, having put on her best Sunday
dress, it was her custom to go to the window, always to the window,
never to the fire--where she would open Boston's Fourfold State and
hold it up in front of her with both hands. This, however, did not
last long, for on the arrival of the milkman the volume was replaced,
and it was necessary to make preparations for tea.
The hackney coach drove up to the house in Rosoman Street where
Zachariah dwelt on the first floor. He was too weak to go upstairs
by himself, and he and his friend therefore walked into the front
room together. It was in complete order, although it was so early in
the morning. Everything was dusted; even the lower fire-bar had not
a speck of ashes on it, and on the hob already was a saucepan in
which Mrs. Coleman proposed to cook the one o'clock dinner. On the
walls were portraits of Sir Francis Burdett, Major Cartwright, and
the mezzotint engraving of Sadler's Bunyan. Two black silhouettes--
one of Zachariah and the other of his wife--were suspended on each
side of the mantelpiece.
Mrs. Coleman was busily engaged in the bedroom, but hearing the
footsteps, she immediately entered.
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