THOMAS CARLYLE, Past and Present As the sun rose over the Pennines, the textile mills of the greater Manchester area came slowly to life. By ten o’clock in the morning, some ninety-nine mills operated at full capacity, with the notable exception of one brick structure situated twelve miles outside the city, where work had been temporarily suspended. This particular mill was witnessing a momentous event, for the door had been flung open to admit its beaming owner, bearing on his arm the most striking woman the workers had ever seen. The pair were almost of a height, but where he was dark, she was fair, and where he was solidly built, she was slender as a reed, and carried herself like a queen. Furthermore, her fashionable peach-colored walking gown and wide-brimmed gypsy hat had clearly not come from any of the local shops. Mr. Brundy, it seemed, had brought his “duchess” for their inspection. And inspect her they did, with bulging eyes and gaping mouths, until Mr. Brundy was obliged to tell his bride, “They’re not ‘alf as dumb as they look.”
