Mrs. Candy was still sober at the hour of the ceremony. Her husband,
not a bad fellow in his way, had long since returned to her, and as
yet had not done more than threaten a repetition of his assault.
Both were present at church. A week ago Bob had established himself
in a room in Shooter's Gardens, henceforth to be shared with him by
his bride. Probably he might have discovered a more inviting abode
for the early days of married life, but Bob had something of the
artist's temperament and could not trouble about practical details;
for the present this room would do as well as another. It was cheap,
and he had need of all the money he could save from everyday
expenses. Pennyloaf would go en with her shirt-making, of course,
and all they wanted was a roof over their heads at night.
And in truth he was fond of Pennyloaf. The poor little slave
worshipped him so sincerely; she repaid his affectionate words with
such fervent gratitude; and there was no denying that she had rather
a pretty face, which had attracted him from the first. But above
all, this preference accorded to so humble a rival had set Clem
Peckover beside herself.
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