His name
was Joseph James Snowdon. When I last heard of him, he was working
at a 'lectroplater's in Clerkenwell. That was thirteen years ago. I
deal openly with you; I shall thank you if you'll do the like with
me.'
'See, will you just come in? I've got a few friends in the
front-room; there's been a death in the 'ouse, an' there's sickness,
an' we're out of order a bit, I'll ask you to come downstairs.'
It was late in the afternoon, and though lights were not yet
required in the upper rooms, the kitchen would have been all but
dark save for the fire. Mrs. Peckover lit a lamp and bade her
visitor be seated. Then she re-examined his face, his attire, his
hands. Everything about him told of a life spent in mechanical
labour. His speech was that of an untaught man, yet differed greatly
from the tongue prevailing in Clerkenwell; he was probably not a
Londoner by birth, and--a point of more moment--he expressed
himself in the tone of one who is habitually thoughtful, who, if the
aid of books has been denied to him, still has won from life the
kind of knowledge which develops character. Mrs. Peckover had small
experience of faces which bear the stamp of simple sincerity.
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