She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. "I was going to die, Hoddy!" she whispered. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question.
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