Her husband surveyed the company over the rim of his cup and then returned to his reading of the evening paper.
During the weighted silence that followed Janet's last remark, he laid down his paper.
"I see," he said, "as 'ow there are some people up in the north of England 'aving what they call Pentecostal visitations." Mrs.Hewson laughed tentatively, the uncertain giggle that scarcely dares to come between the teeth.

She knew her husband's leaning towards the arid humour of an obscure joke.
"What's that, Ern ?" "Well, 'cording to the paper, they get taken with it sudden.

They can't stand up.

They fall down in the middle of the service and roll about, just as if they'd 'ad too much to drink." Mrs.Hewson's laugh became genuine and unafraid, a hysterical clattering of sounds that tumbled from her mouth.
"Silly fools," she said; "the way people go on.

Read it--what is it?
Read it." Mr.Hewson picked some bones out of the bloater with a dirty hand, placed the filleted morsel in his mouth, washed it down with a mouthful of tea, and then cleared his throat and began to read.
Mr.Arthur seized this opportunity.