But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. " "'Ouns!" ejaculated Terence, in alarm, "would you turn snitch on your old pal, Quilt?" "Ay, if he plays a-cross," returned Quilt. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street.
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