An irritable old gentleman, very hot and red about the face, and in a heavy fur-lined cloak, came in noisily. Mrs. Winslow vanished.
“Ugh!” said the old gentleman. “Pocket-handkerchief.”
“Yes, sir,” said Winslow. “About what price—”
“Ugh!” said the old gentleman. “Poggit handkerchief, quig!”
Winslow began to feel flustered. He produced two boxes.
“These, sir,” began Winslow.
“Sheed tin!” said the old gentleman, clutching the stiffness of the linen. “Wad to blow my nose—not haggit about.”
“A cotton one, p’raps, sir?” said Winslow.
“How much?” said the old gentleman, over the handkerchief.
“Sevenpence, sir. There’s nothing more I can show you? No ties, braces—”