The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. "It is useless," replied Mrs. "I am Owen Wood, at your service. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration.
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