tion; to Pennyloaf’s remarks and questions he gave not the slightest heed, but in a few minutes tumbled himself into bed. “Get that light put out,” he exclaimed, after lying still for a while.
Pennyloaf said she was uneasy about the child; its cough seemed to be better, but it moved about restlessly and showed no sign of getting to sleep.
“Give it some of the mixture, then. Be sharp and put the light out.”
Pennyloaf obeyed the second injunction, and she too lay down, keeping the child in her arms; of the “mixture” she was afraid, for a few days since the child of a neighbour had died in consequence of an overdose of this same anodyne. For a long time there was silence in the room. Outside, voices kept sounding with that peculiar muffled distinctness which they have on a night of dense fog, when there is little or no wheel-traffic to make the wonted rumbling.
“Are y'asleep?” Bob asked suddenly.
“No.”
“There’s something I wanted to tell you. You can have Jane Snowdon here again, if you like.”
