It Is Odd Enough To See How

There Was A Filmy Veil Of Soft Dull Mist Obscuring, But Not Hiding, All Objects, Giving Them A Lilac Hue, For The Sun Had Not Yet Fully Set; A Robin Was Singing ... The Leaves Were More Gorgeous Than Ever; The First Touch Of Frost Would Lay Them All Low To The Ground. Already One Or Two Kept Constantly Floating Down, Amber And Golden In The Low Slanting Sun-rays.

In The First Place, Cranford Is In Possession Of The Amazons; All The Holders Of Houses Above A Certain Rent Are Women. If A Married Couple Come To Settle In The Town, Somehow The Gentleman Disappears; He Is Either Fairly Frightened To Death By Being The Only Man In The Cranford Parties, Or He Is Accounted For By Being With His Regiment, His Hip, Or Closely Engaged In Business All The Week In The Great Neighbouring Commercial Town Of Drumble, Distant Only Twenty Miles On A Railroad. In Short, Whatever Does Become Of The Gentlemen, They Are Not At Cranford.

There Is Nothing Like Wounded Affection For Giving Poignancy To Anger.

I Say Gibson, We're Old Friends, And You're A Fool If You Take Anything I Say As An Offense. Madam Your Wife And I Didn't Hit It Off The Only Time I Ever Saw Her. I Won't Say She Was Silly, But I Think One Of Us Was Silly, And It Wasn't Me!

When Oranges Came In, A Curious Proceeding Was Gone Through. Miss Jenkyns Did Not Like To Cut The Fruit, For, As She Observed, The Juice All Ran Out Nobody Knew Where, Sucking [only I Think She Used Some More Recondite Word] Was In Fact The Only Way Of Enjoying Oranges; But Then There Was The Unpleasant Association With A Ceremony Frequently Gone Through By Little Babies; And So, After Dessert, In Orange Season, Miss Jenkyns And Miss Matty Used To Rise Up, Possess Themselves Each Of An Orange In Silence, And Withdraw To The Privacy Of Their Own Rooms To Indulge In Sucking Oranges.