“«Well—there's a difference between 'em, though he do call himself a teetotaller,» said Nance Mockridge. «She'll wish her cake dough afore she's done of him. There's a blue-beardy look about 'en; and 'twill out in time.»
«Stuff—he's well enough! Some folk want their luck buttered.
If I had a choice as wide as the ocean sea I wouldn't wish for a better man. A poor twanking woman like her—'tis a godsend for her, and hardly a pair of jumps or night-rail to her name.»
The plain little brougham drove off in the mist, and the idlers dispersed.”