The big bell two squares off clanged a heavy stroke caught up on the echo by others that sounded smaller farther and farther away, making their irregular, yet familiar phrase and cadence on the air.
It was the fire alarm.
"H—zh! Hark!" Aunt Blin changed the muffled but eager monosyllable to a sharper one; and being reminded, felt in her lap, under her napkin, for her "ornaments," as Bel called them.
But she counted the strokes before she put them in, nodding her head, and holding up her finger to Bel and Bartholomew for silence. Everything stopped where it was with Miss Bree when the fire alarm sounded.
One—two—three—four—five.
"In the city," said Aunt Blin, with a certain weird unconscious satisfaction; and whipped the porcelains into their places before the second tolling should begin. They were like Pleasant Riderhood's back hair: she was all twisted up, now, and ready.
One—two.
"That ain't fur off. Down Bedford Street way. Give me the fire-book, and my glasses."
She turned the folds of the card with one hand, and adjusted her spectacles with the other.
"Bedford and Lincoln. Why, that's close by where Miss Proddle boards!"