Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. 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. " "Horrible!" cried Mrs. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped.
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