The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. Gosse twisted his body to avoid another thrust, and the heavy candlesticks fell, rolling with a noise like thunder, and falling with a thud to the floor. There were two of them. 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. I’m not a lovesick boy.
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