The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. What’s that?” They both stood listening. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. 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.
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