But the class whence Mrs. Tufton proceeded is out of my
social ken. She was stale-drunk; she had, doubtless, a vile
headache; probably she felt twinges of remorse and apprehension of
possible police interference. As a counter-irritant to this, she
had worked herself into an astounding temper. She would give up
none of her husband's belongings. She would have the law on them
if they tried. Bad enough it was for her husband to come home
after a year's desertion, leaving her penniless, and the moment he
set eyes on her begin to knock her about; but for sergeants
suffering under a blight and characterless females masquerading as
hospital nurses to come and ride rough-shod over an honest working
woman was past endurance. Thus I paraphrase my memory of the
lady's torrential speech. "Lay your hand on me," she cried, "and
I'll summons you for assault."
As Marigold could not pass her without laying hands on her, and as
the laying of hands on her, no matter how lightly, would
indubitably have constituted an assault in the eyes of the law,
Marigold stiffly confronted her and tried to argue.
The neighbours listened in sardonic amusement. Betty stood by,
with the spots burning on her cheek, clenching her slender capable
fingers, furious at defeat.
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