‘Why, that’s it. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. A shiver slid down inside her. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles.
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