Jane Snowdon's removal had caused her no little irritation;
the hours of evening were heavy on her hands, and this new emotion
was not unwelcome as a temporary resource.
As he came home from work one Monday towards the end of April, Bob
encountered Pennyloaf; she had a bundle in her hands and was walking
hurriedly.
'Hallo! that you?' ho exclaimed, catching her by the arm. 'Where are
you going?'
'I can't stop now. I've got some things to put away, an' it's nearly
eight.'
'Come round to the Passage to-night. Be there at ten.'
'I can't give no promise. There's been such rows at 'ome. You know
mother summonsed father this mornin'?'
'Yes, I've heard. All right! come if you can; I'll ho there.'
Pennyloaf hastened on. She was a meagre, hollow-eyed, bloodless girl
of seventeen, yet her features had a certain charm--that dolorous
kind of prettiness which is often enough seen in the London
needle-slave. Her habitual look was one of meaningless surprise;
whatever she gazed upon seemed a source of astonishment to her, and
when she laughed, which was not very often, her eyes grew wider than
ever. Her attire was miserable, but there were signs that she tried
to keep it in order; the boots upon her feet were sewn and patched
into shapelessness; her limp straw hat had just received a new
binding.
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