’ ‘Please forgive, milor’, but my wife, and even I myself, have yet very much trouble with English. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. One might suppose him turning up; he knew a lot of clever people, and some of them might belong to the class.
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