"I couldn’t say nothing to her,” he continued, nodding towards the prostrate woman.
“She was sorry for it, an’ you can’t ask no more. It was my fault for trustin’ her with the money to pay, but I get a bit careless now an then, an’ forgot. You do look bad, Bob, and there’s no mistake. Would you feel better if I lighted a bit o’ fire?”
"Yes; I feel cold. I was hot just now.”
“You needn’t be afraid o’ the coals. Mother goes round the streets after the coal-carts, an’ you wouldn’t believe what a lot she picks up some days. You see, we’re neither of us in the ’ouse very often; we don’t burn much.”
He lit a fire, and Bob dragged himself near to it. In the meantime the quietness of the house was suffering a disturbance familiar to its denizens. Mr. Hope—you remember Mr. Hope?—had just returned from an evening at the public-house, and was bent on sustaining his reputation for unmatched vigour of language. He was quarrelling with his wife and daughters; their high notes of vituperation mingled in the most effective way with his manly thunder. To hear Mr. Hope’s expressions, a stranger would have imagined him on
