She could see quite well the pegs in the
old painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could
see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see
a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as
distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair
and put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an
ill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered
a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the
Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel
household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for
it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firm
mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided
jerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners,
without giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a
brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic
air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous
dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove,
and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed
in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of
her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a
low chair before her dressing-table.
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