'I must live in my own way, Mrs. Byass. I don't want to have to
leave you.'
And if ever life seemed a little too hard, if the image of the past
grew too mournfully persistent, she knew where to go for
consolation. Let us follow her, one Saturday afternoon early in the
year.
In a poor street in Clerkenwell was a certain poor little shop--
built out as an afterthought from an irregular lump of houses; a
shop with a room behind it and a cellar below; no more. Here was
sold second-hand clothing, women's and children's. No name over the
front, but neighbours would have told you that it was kept by one
Mrs. Todd, a young widow with several children. Mrs. Todd, not long
ago, used to have only a stall in the street; but a lady named Miss
Lant helped her to start in a more regular way of business.
'And does she carry it on quite by herself?'
No; with her lived another young woman, also a widow, who had one
child. Mrs. Hewett, her name. She did sewing in the room behind, or
attended to the shop when Mrs. Todd was away making purchases.
There Jane Snowdon entered. The clothing that hung in the window
made it very dark inside; she had to peer a little before she could
distinguish the person who sat behind the counter.
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