“What’s the use of spelling! Any one can spell—can’t they, mother?”
“No, dear,” and the mother laughed; “many people are not as far advanced as Gwen.”
They were within twenty yards of the great house in Lombard Street, with its warm red walls and its white window frames, when a crowd of small boys came scattering round the northeast corner of St. Antonia’s Square. In the middle of the road a butcher had stopped his cart, and several people were loitering by the railings under the elms, watching something that was as yet invisible to Catherine and the children.
“I specs it’s Punch and Judy,” and Master Jack tugged at his mother’s hand.
“Wait, dear, wait.”
“Muvver, may I give the Toby dog a biscuit?”
“Two, Gwen, if you like.”
“I just love to see old Punch smack silly old Judy with a stick!”
“Jack, you are velly cruel,” and the little lady from all sympathy with her brother’s barbaric inclinations.
A man turned the corner of the street suddenly, cannoned two small boys aside, and hurried on with the half-scared look of one who has seen a child crushed to death under a cart. He stopped abruptly when he saw Catherine and the children, his white and resolute face glistening with sweat.
“Mrs. Murchison, take the children in—”
Catherine stared at him; it was John Reynolds, her husband’s dispenser with her, he would sanction everything
at oncehe answered.
.
|
收藏
推
噓