The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting; he more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire; he occasionally turned his head towards the window; he looked at intervals at his watch; in short, his mind appeared preoccupied. Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather--for it was a fine and mild morning for the season--and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting-house stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine entered freely; but the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only an occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable from the gaunt mill-chimney.
A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered the words "He's comed, sir," and vanished.
Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and gray worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, and desired to take a seat, which he did, making the remark, as he removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown, that it was "raight dahn warm for Febewerry." Mr. Moore assented--at least he uttered some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully deposited in the corner beside him an official-looking staff which he bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way of appearing at his ease.

The contents seemed not to absorb him; he turned his head towards the window; he looked at his watch, and appeared preoccupied. It was a fine, mild morning; perhaps he wished to be out in the fields. The door of his counting-house stood wide open, and the breeze and sunshine entered freely.
A dark-blue apparition - Joe Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat - appeared at the open door, uttered the words "He's comed, sir," and vanished.
A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and grey woollen stockings, entered, was received with a nod, and told to take a seat. He removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief, saying that it was "raight dahn warm for Febewerry."
Mr. Moore uttered some slight sound of agreement. The visitor carefully deposited an official-looking staff in the corner; then he began to whistle.
