The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. CHAPTER I. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. " She paused. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. ” “But he recognized you,” the official objected. ‘I am extremely displeased. 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.
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