She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. It was eleven o'clock. " "Oh, dear!" simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate. " CHAPTER XI.
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