Miss Featherstonehaugh

The thunder ran through the house like a hyperactive two-year old, peeking into things and under things, careering round corners and scaring the cat.
Miss Featherstonehaugh looked up from her tatting and frowned, her delicate gold-framed spectacles slipping slightly down her nose. Sighing very gently, she laid down the nearly-finished lace handcuffs, got arthritically to her feet, and straightened her skirt. Only when she was tidy did she look around her, her gray gaze like a prison searchlight.
“Where are you then?” she said softly, more to herself than to the thunder. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her apron and came out again holding an unusually long-bladed bodkin. “If you’re going to disturb me, it had better be for a good reason.”
In a room upstairs a cat began mewling, sounding pathetic and forgotten, and Miss Featherstonehaugh’s nascent smile hardened into a thin line.
“I will not tolerate you upsetting the pets!” she called, and set off upstairs with the bodkin held like a dagger.

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