Late in the afternoon he drew from the inner pocket of his coat a
long envelope and took thence a folded paper. It was covered with
clerkly writing, which he perused several times. At length he tore
the paper slowly across the middle, again tore the fragments, and
threw them on to the fire. . . .
Jane obeyed her grandfather's word and went out for an hour. She
wished for news of Pennyloaf, who had been ill, and was now very
near the time of her confinement. At the door of the house in Merlin
Place she was surprised to encounter Bob Hewett, who stood in a
lounging attitude; he had never appeared to her so disreputable--
not that his clothes were worse than usual, but his face and hands
were dirty, and the former was set in a hang-dog look.
'Is your wife upstairs, Mr. Hewett?' Jane asked, when he had nodded
sullenly in reply to her greeting.
'Yes; and somebody else too as could have been dispensed with.
There's another mouth to feed.'
'No, there ain't,' cried a woman's voice just behind him.
Jane recognised the speaker, a Mrs. Griffin, who lived in the house
and was neighbourly to Pennyloaf.
'There ain't?' inquired Bob, gruffly.
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