"Oh But she was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within her froze her old features, nipped her pointed nose, shrivelled her cheek, stiffened her gait; made her eyes red, her thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in her grating voice. A frosty rime was on her head, and on her eyebrows, and her wiry chin. She carried her own low temperature always about with...