Bridget shudderingly decided that a row in Whitechapel could be nothing to this in the matter of bad language.

She got up and paced the sitting-room in her dressing-gown, wondering when her husband would come and rescue her from these beasts.

Watching for him she could see through the uncurtained French windows the starry brilliance of the night, and the moon now in its middle quarter.

And down below, the houses and shanties along the opposite side of the street, the fantastic tufts of the pawpaws, the long white road stretching away into the ragged blur of gum-forest.
Presently a firm step sounded on the veranda and came up the stairs.
When Colin opened the door, he saw standing by the table, which had a kerosene lamp on the red cloth, and, even at this time of the year, winged insects buzzing around, and sticking to its greasy bowl--a small white figure like an apparition from another world, in its wonderful draperies of lace and filmy white, the little pale face framed in a cloud of shining hair, and the strange eyes wide, scared, and with tears glistening on the reddened lids.
She cried out at him.
'How could you have left me alone here with those horrible drunken men down there making such a noise that I thought every minute they would break in on me?
And swearing! I've never dreamed of such dreadful language; and I can't stand it--I won't stand it a moment longer.' 'You shan't.

It's abominable, I've been a thoughtless beast.' He swooped out through the open door, down the wooden stairs which creaked under his wrathful steps.