Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears,
Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to
which they would draw her,” she said. He was not there. Teenagers buzzed about her newly discovered
talent for the violin in the same sentences as they
gossiped about her torrid police scandal and a lost mother
who remained in the deep shadows of murder mystery. Dump
popped his head into the cage. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure
swept over him. There is no other way. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was
bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon
rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the
purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a
dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as
Miss Miniver. But, not daring to confess his want of comprehension,
he made a profound reverence, and retired. Under
happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have
offered you a home with your sister. Wood?"
"With pleasure," replied the woollen-draper. The
boat's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if she 'scapes stavin' above, she'll be
swamped to a sartainty below. And he
did not lack courage.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 25-06-2024 16:37:07