— XVIII —THE GLASSPOOLES
RECEIVE A VISITOR
“This is my home.”
They had come up three flights of broken stairs. The little man pushed a door open at the top. A voice inquired from within—
“Who’s there?”
“It’s I – and Mr. Smithers. – Go in.”
Mr. Smithers went in. He found himself in a small, barely furnished room, which stood badly in need of re-papering and re-painting. Seated at a table before the open window was a woman, who had once been pretty. She was still probably not more than thirty four or five, and not so much ill-looking as prematurely worn-out. She looked half starved; exhausted – not only for want of rest, but still more for want of peace of mind. A tragedy was in her anxious eyes; in her nervous, shrinking attitude; in her apparent constant expectation of another lash f
