She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. There are two ways to go in, you understand. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Why is the door fastened? Open it directly!" "Are you alone?" asked Jack, mimicking the voice of Kneebone. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall.
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