Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. . ’ Martha got up with a swish of her black habit. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. ” She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie.
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