Girls erupted in waves of whispering as soon as she passed them by. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. ‘What started you off, you madman,’ Roding told him frankly, as he set about tying his handkerchief around the wound, ‘was being born at all. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home.
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