In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. McClintock was amused. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. C below.
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