At another time most likely she would have cared something less than a straw for Mrs.
Poole's opinion of her, but just now--somehow--well, she didn't know quite how it was.

Why would Luke keep on drinking in that way, and oblige her to run out of the music-ball?
It was his fault, the foolish fellow.

But he had been quick enough to defend her; a girl would not find it amiss to have that arm always at her service.

And in the meantime he was in the police cell.
Mrs.Poole, excessively annoyed, went down to the kitchen.

Her husband sat in front of the fire, a long clay pipe at his lips, his feet very wide apart on the fender; up on the high mantelpiece stood a half finished glass of beer.