"No more o' that damned washin' and ironin'--no more work----"
True! How true! The street door opened straight into the little
kitchen. She was not in bed, for the light was still burning; they
could see it at either side of the blind, shrunk crooked with steam.
There was one step down into the kitchen; but for all that, the door
would not open when they raised the latch and pushed it, stuck against
something.
"Some of those beastly old clothes!" Ben shoved it, hailing his mother.
"Mother! Mother, you've got something stuck against the door." Odd that
she did not come to his help, quick as she always was.
After all, it gave way too suddenly for him to altogether realise the
oddness; and he stumbled forward right across the kitchen, seeing
nothing until he turned and faced Jenny still standing upon the step,
staring downward, with an ashy-white face, wide eyes fixed upon old
Mrs. Cohen, who lay there at her feet, resting--incomprehensibly
resting.
They need not have been so emphatic about it all--"No more beastly
washing, no more work"--for the whole thing was out of their hands once
and for all.
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