"How horrible!" said Thyme.
Martin regarded the young man, unmoved. "That stuff' you're smoking's
rank," he said. "Have some of mine; I'll show you how to make them.
It'll save you one and three per pound of baccy, and won't rot your
lungs."
Taking out his pouch, he rolled a cigarette. The white young man bent
his dull wink on Thyme, who, wrinkling her nose, was pretending to be
far away.
Mounting the narrow stairs that smelt of walls and washing and red
herrings, Thyme spoke: "Now, you see, it wasn't so simple as you
thought. I don't want to go up; I don't want to see her. I shall wait
for you here." She took her stand in the open doorway of the little
model's empty room. Martin ascended to the second floor.
There, in the front room, Mrs. Hughs was seen standing with the baby in
her arms beside the bed. She had a frightened and uncertain air. After
examining her wrist, and pronouncing it a scratch, Martin looked long at
the baby. The little creature's toes were stiffened against its mother's
waist, its eyes closed, its tiny fingers crisped against her breast.
While Mrs. Hughs poured forth her tale, Martin stood with his eyes still
fixed on the baby. It could not be gathered from his face what he was
thinking, but now and then he moved his jaw, as though he were suffering
from toothache.
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