CHAPTER XV
SECOND PILGRIMAGE TO HOUND STREET
Arriving in Hound Street, Martin Stone and his companion went straight up to Mrs. Hughs' front room. They found her doing the week's washing, and hanging out before a scanty fire part of the little that the week had been suffered to soil. Her arms were bare, her face and eyes red; the steam of soapsuds had congealed on them.
Attached to the bolster by a towel, under his father's bayonet and the oleograph depicting the Nativity, sat the baby. In the air there was the scent of him, of walls, and washing, and red herrings. The two young people took their seat on the window-sill.
“May we open the window, Mrs. Hughs?” said Thyme. “Or will it hurt the baby?”
“No, miss.”
“What's the matter with your wrists?” asked Martin.
The seamstress, muffing her arms with the garment she was dipping in soapy water, did not answer.
“Don't do that. Let me have a look.”
Mrs. Hughs held out her arms; the wrists were swollen and discoloured.