She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. 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. “For luck. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. “Of course I will,” he answered.
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