Presently Mrs Yabsley looked hard at Mrs Swadling, who was shading her head from the sun with her apron.
"Wot's the matter with yer eye ?" she said, abruptly.
"Nuthin'," said Mrs Swadling, and coloured.
The eye she was shading was black from a recent blow, a present from her husband, Sam the carter, who came home for his tea, fighting drunk, as regular as clockwork.
"I thought I 'eard Sam snorin' after tea," said Mrs Jones.
"Yes, 'e was; but 'e woke up about twelve, an' give me beans 'cause I'd let 'im sleep till the pubs was shut." "An' yer laid 'im out wi' the broom-handle, I s'pose ?" "No fear," said Mrs Swadling.

"I ran down the yard, an' 'ollered blue murder." "Well," said Mrs Yabsley, reflectively, "an 'usband is like the weather, or a wart on yer nose.

It's no use quarrelling with it.

If yer don't like it, yer've got ter lump it.

An' if yer believe all yer 'ear, everybody else 'as got a worse." She looked down the street, and saw Jonah and Chook, with a few others of the Push, sunning themselves in the morning air.