“You’ll put ’em on the fire back, I tell you,” he said.
It was a war now. She bent forward, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion, and put her tongue between her teeth.
“I shan’t backfire them stockings,” she sang, repeating his words, “I shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t,”
And she danced round the room doing a high kick to the tune of her words. There was a real biting indifference in her behaviour.
“We’ll see whether you will or not,” he said, “trollops! You’d like Sam Adams to know you was wearing ’em, wouldn’t you? That’s what would please you.”
“Yes, I’d like him to see how nicely they fit me, he might give me some more then.”
And she looked down at her pretty legs.
He knew somehow that she would like Sam Adams to see how pretty her legs looked in the white stockings. It made his anger go deep, almost to hatred.
“Yer nasty trolley,” he cried. “Put yer petticoats down, and stop being so foul-minded.”
“I’m not foul-minded,” she said. “My legs are my own. And why shouldn’t Sam Adams think they’re nice?”
There was a pause. He watched her with eyes glittering to a point.
“Have you been havin’ owt to do with him?” he asked.
“I’ve just spoken to him when I’ve seen him,” she said. “He’s not as bad as you would make out.”
