sort: those fine chemises without sleeves, the very thing to make a body
blue with cold, and mauve woollen undervests that pull out to no more than
the thickness of a string. And how did these abominations get there? Why,
'tis the daughters, to be sure, the young girls of the present day, who've
been in service in the towns, and earned such finery that way. Wash them
carefully, and not too often, and the things will last for just a month.
And then there is a lovely naked feeling when the holes begin to spread.

But there is none of that sort of nonsense, now, about Gunhild's shoes,
for instance. At suitable intervals, she goes round to one of the
fishermen, her like in age and mind, and gets the uppers and the soles
done in thoroughly with a powerful mess of stuff that leaves the water
simply helpless. I've seen that dubbin boiling on the beach; there's
tallow in it, and tar and resin as well.

Wandering idly along the beach yesterday, looking at driftwood and scales
and stones, I came upon a tiny bit of plate glass. How it ever got there,
is more than I can make out; but the thing seems a mistake, a very lie, to
look at. Would any fisherman, now, have rowed out here with it and laid it
down and rowed away again? I left it where it lay; it was thick and common
and vulgar; perhaps a bit of a tramcar window. Once on a time glass was
rare, and bottle-green. God's blessing on the old days, when something
could be rare!

Smoke rising now from the fisher-huts on the southern point of the island.
Evening time, and porridge cooking for supper. And when supper's done,
decent folk go to their beds, to be up again with the dawn. Only young and
foolish creatures still go trapesing round from house to house, putting
off their bedtime, not knowing what is best for themselves.