They haven’t got wind as to the man yet, but by God! they will do if you show your face at that funeral. And when those men of Hastings Old Town finish with you, you won’t have much face left to speak of, I know that.” Across the small space of the cottage kitchen, Abel Mason stared at his wife. The tanned skin of his face looked taut as if it had been set in glue ; the wide, thin lips lay one on top of the other, not pressed tight, just resting together as if under the influence of gentle sleep. It was only the eyes that showed any sign of awareness and their expression made up in full for the immobility of the face. But what that expression was it was hard to define, no one emotion could describe it, for in the brown depths of his eyes burnt not only loathing, but the contradictory emotion of pity. It was this last that came through to his wife, and it now brought her screaming, ”You dirty, whoring sod you!” and on the last word she picked up a jug of milk from the table and threw it at him.
