Oh Dear! A Drunken Infidel Weaver! Said

My Heart Burnt Within Me With Indignation And Grief; We Could Think Of Nothing Else. All Night Long We Had Only Snatches Of Sleep, Waking Up Perpetually To The Sense Of A Great Shock And Grief. Every One Is Feeling The Same. I Never Knew So Universal A Feeling.

Nay, Nay!” Said The Squire. “it’s Not So Easy To Break One’s Heart. Sometimes I’ve Wished It Were. But One Has To Go On Living—‘all The Appointed Days,’ As Is Said In The Bible.

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.

For All His Pain, He Longed To See The Author Of It. Although He Hated Margaret At Times, When He Thought Of That Gentle Familiar Attitude And All The Attendant Circumstances, He Had A Restless Desire To Renew Her Picture In His Mind - A Longing For The Very Atmosphere She Breathed. He Was In The Charybdis Of Passion, And Must Perforce Circle And Circle Ever Nearer Round The Fatal Centre.

He Could Not - Say Rather, He Would Not - Deny Himself The Chance Of The Pleasure Of Seeing Margaret. He Had No End In This But The Present Gratification.