ic lamps were lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made

and brought home such purchases as were needful. Although Miss

Pross, through her long associations with a French family, might

have known as much of their language as of her own, if she had

had a mind, she had no mind in that direction; consequently she

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was pleased to call it)

than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing was to plump

a noun-substantive at the head of a shop-keeper without any

introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to

be the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing,

lay hold of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded.

She always made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of

its just price, one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever

his number might be.

“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red

with felicity; “if you are ready, I am.”

Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross’s service. He had

worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head

down.

“There’s all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and

we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest.

Nice toasts these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”

“It wil