Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. She could not hide her face. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world.
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