Page 117 - sons-and-lovers

‘I’ll jowl your head for impudence,’ said Mrs. Morel, and
she tied the strings of the black bonnet valiantly under her
chin.
She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy,
the pot man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were
something between them. Suddenly he shouted:
‘Do you want it for fivepence?’
She started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped
and took up her dish.
‘I’ll have it,’ she said.
‘Yer’ll do me the favour, like?’ he said. ‘Yer’d better spit
in it, like yer do when y’ave something give yer.’
Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner.
‘I don’t see you give it me,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t let me
have it for fivepence if you didn’t want to.’
‘In this flamin’, scrattlin’ place you may count yerself
lucky if you can give your things away,’ he growled.
‘Yes; there are bad times, and good,’ said Mrs. Morel.
But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She
dare now finger his pots. So she was happy.
Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming.
She was always her best so—triumphant, tired, laden with
parcels, feeling rich in spirit. He heard her quick, light step
in the entry and looked up from his drawing.
‘Oh!’ she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway.
‘My word, you ARE loaded!’ he exclaimed, putting down
his brush.
‘I am!’ she gasped. ‘That brazen Annie said she’d meet
me. SUCH a weight!’

11 Sons and Lovers