“Oh, yes; quite easy. She was out for a little bit of exercise. She’s in bed and asleep a long time back.”
“Where you ought to be, Jill. You look fit to drop.”
“I ain’t then; I’m quite fresh. Where are my flowers?”
“There, dearie. Good-night to you, Jill Robinson.”
“Good-night, Mrs Stanley. Thank yer for keeping the flowers.”
Jill took up her basket and departed. In the passage which belonged to her mother’s flat she spent some little time watering her flowers, removing the withered ones, and making her basket look trim and fresh for the morrow.
The clock which belonged to a neighbouring church had struck one long before she laid her head on her pillow.