at lunch to-day”—But elderly women are the worst.
Indeed now you can’t sit praying any longer. Kruger’s sunk beneath the clouds—washed over as with a painter’s brush of liquid grey, to which he adds a tinge of black—even the tip of the truncheon gone now. That’s what always happens! Just as you’ve seen him, felt him, someone interrupts. It’s Hilda now.
How you hate her! She’ll even lock the bathroom door overnight, too, though it’s only cold water you want, and sometimes when the night’s been bad it seems as if washing helped. And John at breakfast—the children—meals are worst, and sometimes there are friends—ferns don’t altogether hide ’em—they guess, too; so out you go along the front, where the waves are grey, and the papers blow, and the glass shelters green and draughty, and the chairs cost tuppence—too much—for there must be preachers along the sands. Ah, that’s a nigger—that’s a funny man—that’s a man with
