'Little liar! that's what you always was, an' always will be.--
Take that!'
The speaker was a girl of sixteen, tall, rather bony, rudely
handsome; the hand with which she struck was large and
coarse-fibred, the muscles that impelled it vigorous. Her dress was
that of a work-girl, unsubstantial, ill-fitting, but of ambitious
cut; her hair was very abundant, and rose upon the back of her head
in thick coils, an elegant fringe depending in front. The fire had
made her face scarlet, and in the lamplight her large eyes glistened
with many joys.
First and foremost, Miss Clementina Peckover rejoiced because she
had left work much earlier than usual, and was about to enjoy what
she would have described as a 'blow out.' Secondly, she rejoiced
because her mother, the landlady of the house, was absent for the
night, and consequently she would exercise sole authority over the
domestic slave, Jane Snowdon--that is to say, would indulge to the
uttermost her instincts of cruelty in tormenting a defenceless
creature. Finally--a cause of happiness antecedent to the others,
but less vivid in her mind at this moment--in the next room lay
awaiting burial the corpse of Mrs.
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