\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. 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. The class laughed, a few putting their hands to their foreheads in a military salute to mock her. Section 2. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. ‘Come on. Spurlock. “Lighten up.
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