Cicely Leeds's head ached as she bent over
the ruffles she was hemming. She was the youngest seamstress in the
room, and wore her hair hanging in two long braids.
It seemed a pity that such girlish shoulders should be learning to
stoop, and that her eyes had to bear such a constant strain. The light
was particularly bad this afternoon. Every curtain was rolled to the
top of its big window, but the dull December sky was as gray as a fog.
Even the snow on the surrounding housetops looked gray and dirty in
the smoky haze.
Now and then Cicely looked up from her work and glanced out of the
window. The cold grayness of the outdoor world made her shiver. It was
a world of sooty chimney-tops as she saw it, with a few chilly
sparrows huddled in a disconsolate row along the eaves. It would soon
be time to be going home, and the only home Cicely had now was a
cheerless little back bedroom in a cheap boarding-house. She dreaded
going back to it. It was at least warm in Madame Levaney's
steam-heated workrooms, and it was better to have the noise and
confusion than the cold solitude.
Cicely's chair was the one nearest the entrance to the parlour where
madame received her customers, and presently some one passing through
the door left it ajar. Above the hum of the machines Cicely could hear
a voice that she recognised.
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