The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. Solomon Smith received something very like a rebuff. “What the hell is going on here, Officer?” He grumbled. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow.
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