d no ears for anything in their

surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross

lost in amazement and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncherthough it

seemed on his own separate and individual accountwas in a

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

state of the greatest wonder.

“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross

to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low

tone), and in English.

“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her

hands again. “After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for

so long a time, do I find you here!”

“Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?”

asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.

“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have

I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel

question?”

“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and

come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come

out. Who’s this man?”

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no

means affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr.

Cruncher.”

“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a

ghost?”

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said

not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her

reticule throug