I looked round at the men and maids; but their eyes were all for the pageant, now not a stone's-throw away.
"Who is that old woman?" I asked, touching Caleb, the head ostler, on the shoulder.
Caleb—a small bandy-legged man, with a chin full of furrows, and the furrows full of grey stubble—withdrew his gaze grudgingly from the sheriff's coach.
"What woman?"
"She that went by a moment since."
"She in the blue cloak, d'ee mean?—an old, ancient, wisht-lookin' body?"
"Yes."
"A timmersome woman, like?"
"That's it."
"Well, her name's Cordely Pinsent."