'Lord so's, who's that?' said Mrs. Smith, in a private
exclamation, and turning round saw William Worm, endeavouring to
make himself look passing civil and friendly by overspreading his
face with a large smile that seemed to have no connection with the
humour he was in. Behind him stood a woman about twice his size,
with a large umbrella over her head. This was Mrs. Worm,
William's wife.
'Come in, William,' said John Smith. 'We don't kill a pig every
day. And you, likewise, Mrs. Worm. I make ye welcome. Since ye
left Parson Swancourt, William, I don't see much of 'ee.'
'No, for to tell the truth, since I took to the turn-pike-gate
line, I've been out but little, coming to church o' Sundays not
being my duty now, as 'twas in a parson's family, you see.
However, our boy is able to mind the gate now, and I said, says I,
"Barbara, let's call and see John Smith."'
'I am sorry to hear yer pore head is so bad still.'
'Ay, I assure you that frying o' fish is going on for nights and
days. And, you know, sometimes 'tisn't only fish, but rashers o'
bacon and inions. Ay, I can hear the fat pop and fizz as nateral
as life; can't I, Barbara?'
Mrs. Worm, who had been all this time engaged in closing her
umbrella, corroborated this statement, and now, coming indoors,
showed herself to be a wide-faced, comfortable-looking woman, with
a wart upon her cheek, bearing a small tuft of hair in its centre.
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