Mrs. Bubb and all the lodgers had shown that they
meant to hold aloof; not even Moggie would look at her or speak a
word. It was quite an unprecedented state of things, and Polly found
it disagreeable.
There was only one consolation, and that a poor one. She had
received a letter from Christopher Parish, a letter of abject
remonstrance and entreaty. He grovelled at her feet. He talked
frantically of poison and the river. If she would but meet him and
hear him in his own defence! And Polly quite meaning to do so, gave
herself the pleasure of appearing obdurate for a couple of days.
At the theatre she examined every row of spectators in stalls and
dress-circle, having he own reason for thinking that she might
discover certain face. But no such fortune befell her, and still no
letter came.
At home she suffered increasing discomfort. For one thing she had to
seek her meals in the nearest coffee-shop instead of going down into
Mrs. Bubb's kitchen and gossiping as she ate at the family deal
table, amid the dirt and disorder which custom had made pleasant.
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