Page 94 - sons-and-lovers

sofa.
‘Stop it, both of you,’ cried Mrs. Morel in a hard voice.
‘We’ve had enough for ONE night. And YOU,’ she said,
turning on to her husband, ‘look at your children!’
Morel glanced at the sofa.
‘Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!’ he sneered.
‘Why, what have I done to the children, I should like to
know? But they’re like yourself; you’ve put ‘em up to your
own tricks and nasty ways—you’ve learned ‘em in it, you
‘ave.’
She refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while
he threw his boots under the table and went to bed.
‘Why didn’t you let me have a go at him?’ said William,
when his father was upstairs. ‘I could easily have beaten
him.’
‘A nice thing—your own father,’ she replied.
‘FATHER!’’ repeated William. ‘Call HIM MY father!’
‘Well, he is—and so—-‘
‘But why don’t you let me settle him? I could do, easily.’
‘The idea!’ she cried. ‘It hasn’t come to THAT yet.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s come to worse. Look at yourself. WHY
didn’t you let me give it him?’
‘Because I couldn’t bear it, so never think of it,’ she cried
quickly.
And the children went to bed, miserably.
When William was growing up, the family moved from
the Bottoms to a house on the brow of the hill, command-
ing a view of the valley, which spread out like a convex
cockle-shell, or a clamp-shell, before it. In front of the house