They found the house, a very grimy looking one, in the interminable
Cromwell Road. Maggie rang a jangling bell, and the door was
ultimately opened by a woman with sleeves turned up at the elbows
and a dirty apron.
"Is Miss Warlock at home?" The woman sniffed.
"I expect so," she said. "Most times she is. What name?"
"Mrs. Trenchard," Maggie said.
She was admitted into a hall that smelt of food and seemed in the
half-light to be full of umbrellas. The woman went upstairs, but
soon returned to say that Miss Warlock would see the lady. Maggie
found that in the sitting-room the gas was dimly burning. There was
the usual lodging-house furniture, and on a faded red sofa near the
fire old Mrs. Warlock was lying. Maggie could not see her very
clearly in the half-light, but there was something about her
immobility and the stiffness of her head (decorated as of old with
its frilly white cap) that reminded one of a figure made out of wax.
Maggie turned to find Amy Warlock standing close to her.
"Mrs. Thurston--" Maggie began, hesitating.
"You may not know," said Amy Warlock, "that I have retained my
maiden name.
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