the man's face.

"My Gawd, it's my 'usband!" she screamed. "Bill, Bill, wot 'ave they done
ter yer?"

Her old affection, starved to death by years of neglect, sprang to life
for an instant in this cry of agony. She dropped on her knees beside the
bruised body, wiping the blood from his face with the sleeve of her
nightdress. A dark red stain spread over the coarse, common calico.
And she kissed passionately the bleeding lips, heedless of the sour smell
of alcohol that tainted his breath. The bricklayer groaned feebly.
With a sudden movement she stripped the coat from her shoulders, and
covered him as if to protect him from further harm.

Her hair, fastened in an untidy knot, slipped from the hairpins, and fell,
grey and scanty, over her neck; her bony shoulders, barely covered by the
thin garment, moved convulsively.

"'Ere, missis, take this, or you'll ketch cold," said a man kindly,
pulling off his coat.

Then, with the quick sympathy of the people, they began to make light
of the matter, trying to persuade her that his injuries were not serious.
A friendly rivalry sprang up among them as they related stories of
wonderful recoveries made by men whose bodies had been beaten to a jelly.
One, carried away by enthusiasm, declared that it did a man good to be
shattered like glass, for the doctors, with satanic cunning seized the
opportunity to knead the broken limbs like putty into a more desirable
shape. But their words fell on deaf ears. The woman crouched over the
prostrate man, stroking the bruised limbs with a stupid, mechanical