She paused and stared hard at it. "Whose is it,
Mrs. Biggs?" she asked awe-struck of the friendly charwoman, who
happened to pass at the moment,--the charwoman who frequently came
in to do a day's cleaning at her mother's lodging-house. Mrs. Biggs
knew it well; "It's Sir Anthony Merrick's," she answered in that
peculiarly hushed voice with which the English poor always utter the
names of the titled classes. And so in fact it was; for the famous
gout doctor had lately been knighted for his eminent services in
saving a royal duke from the worst effects of his own
self-indulgence. Dolly put one fat finger to her lip, and elevated
her eyebrows, and looked grave at once. Sir Anthony Merrick! What a
very grand gentleman he must be indeed, and how nice it must seem to
be able to drive in so distinguished a vehicle with a liveried
footman.
As she paused and looked, lost in enjoyment of that beatific
vision, Sir Anthony himself emerged from the porch. Dolly took a
good stare at him. He was handsome, austere, close-shaven,
implacable. His profile was clear-cut, like Trajan's on an aureus.
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