Wasted under the disfigurement of pains and cares. Incongruously enough, she wore a gown of briglit-pattemed calico, and about her neck had a collar of pretentious lace; her hair was dressed as if for a holiday, and a daub recently made on her cheeks by the baby’s fingers lent emphasis to the fact that she had but a little while ago washed herself with much care.
“I can’t stop,” said Jane, “but I thought I’d just look in and speak a word. How have you been getting on?”
“Oh, do come in for just a minute!” pleaded Pennyloaf, moving backwards to an open door, whither Jane followed. They entered a room,—much like other rooms that we have looked into from time to time. Following the nomadic custom of their kind, Bob Hewett and his wife had lived in six or seven different lodgings since their honeymoon in Shooter’s Gardens. Mrs. Candy first of all made a change necessary, as might have been anticipated, and the restlessness of domestic ill-being subsequently drove them
