Was this the right moment? After what she had said about Jarvis Remenham’s habits, he could do with more information before he revealed his purpose. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. ” She repeated, as if she answered an objector: “A sort of blacklegging. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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