Very ugly they all were,--cheap, painted wood, of a shining red, and tawdry pictures on the doors, which ran up to a sharp point in a travesty of the Gothic arch outline.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Mercy, involuntarily aloud.
"Bless my soul! Bless my soul!" fell suddenly upon her ear, in sharp, jerking syllables, accompanied by clicking taps of a cane on the sidewalk.
She turned and looked into the face of her friend, "Old Man Wheeler," who was standing so near her that with each of his rapid shiftings from foot to foot he threatened to tread on the hem of her gown.
"Bless my soul! Bless my soul! Glad to see ye.

Missed your face.

How're ye gettin' on?
Gone into your house?
How's your mother?
I'll come see you, if you're settled.

Don't go to see anybody,--never go! never go! People are all wolves, wolves, wolves; but I'll come an' see you.

Like your face,--good face, good face.