More singular still, a wig of red hair stood on the dressing-table, and
Mrs. Sharpe's cranium was adorned with a respectable growth of dark,
glossy, brown hair.
"If they only saw me now," said Mrs. Sharpe to herself, with a chuckle,
"I rather think they'd open their old eyes!"
She went to work artistically--reddened her eyelids over again,
carefully adjusted her wig, set her cap on it, fixed her spectacles on
her nose, and surveyed herself complacently in the cracked
chimney-glass.
"You'll do," said Mrs. Sharpe, nodding familiarly to her image: "You're
as ugly as if somebody had bespoke you. I only wonder how that little
unfortunate can take to such a looking object--and she does take to me,
poor dear! And now I'll write to him. He's sure to be along in the
course of the morning."
Taking from her capacious pocket a blank-book and a lead-pencil, Mrs.
Susan Sharpe sat down and wrote.
And this is what Mrs. Sharpe wrote:
"She's here, and safe and well, and don't know me no more than the dead.
But I can't get her out. Two old women and one old man are on the watch
all day long.
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