Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. It was a mass of knick-knacks. A shiver slid down inside her. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves.
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