"Who do you want to see?" she wheezed.
"Miss Bobinet."
"Who?"
"Miss Bobinet!" said Nance, lifting her voice.
"Stop that hollering at me!" said the old woman. "Who sent you here?"
"Mrs. Purdy."
"What for?"
Nance explained her mission at the top of her voice and was grudgingly
admitted into the hall.
"You ain't going to suit her. I can tell you that," said the squint-eyed
one mournfully, "but I guess you might as well go in and wait until she
wakes up. Mind you don't bump into things."
Nance felt her way into the room indicated and cautiously let herself
down into the nearest chair. Sitting facing her was an imposing old
lady, with eyes closed and mouth open, making the most alarming noises
in her throat. She began with a guttural inhalation that increased in
ferocity until it broke in a violent snort, then trailed away in a
prolonged and somewhat plaintive whistle. Nance watched her with
amazement. It seemed that each recurrent snort must surely send the old
wrinkled head, with its elaborately crimped gray wig, rolling away under
the stiff horse-hair sofa.
The room was almost dark, but the light that managed to creep in showed a
gloomy black mantelpiece, with vases of immortelles, and somber walnut
chairs with crocheted tidies that made little white patches here and
there in the dusk. Everything smelled of camphor, and from one of the
corners came the slow, solemn tick of a clock.
After Nance had recovered from her suspense about Miss Bobinet's head,
and had taken sufficient note of the vocal gymnastics to be able to
reproduce them later for the amusement of the Snawdors, she began to
experience great difficulty in keeping still.
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