The sight reminded Mrs. Henchard-Newson and her daughter that they had
an appetite; and they inquired of the woman for the nearest baker's.

"Ye may as well look for manna-food as good bread in Casterbridge just
now," she said, after directing them. "They can blare their trumpets
and thump their drums, and have their roaring dinners"--waving her hand
towards a point further along the street, where the brass band could be
seen standing in front of an illuminated building--"but we must needs be
put-to for want of a wholesome crust. There's less good bread than good
beer in Casterbridge now."

"And less good beer than swipes," said a man with his hands in his
pockets.

"How does it happen there's no good bread?" asked Mrs. Henchard.

"Oh, 'tis the corn-factor--he's the man that our millers and bakers all
deal wi', and he has sold 'em growed wheat, which they didn't know
was growed, so they SAY, till the dough ran all over the ovens like
quicksilver; so that the loaves be as fiat as toads, and like suet
pudden inside. I've been a wife, and I've been a mother, and I never see
such unprincipled bread in Casterbridge as this before.--But you must be
a real stranger here not to know what's made all the poor volks' insides
plim like blowed bladders this week?"

"I am," said Elizabeth's mother shyly.

Not wishing to be observed further till she knew more of her future
in this place, she withdrew with her daughter from the speaker's side.
Getting a couple of biscuits at the shop indicated as a temporary