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"That's a Bit Thick," said Mr. Polly.
"
Thick!" cried the plump woman; "it's 'orrible! And what am I to do?
He's been here three times now, six days and a week and a part of a
week, and I pray to God night and day he may never come again.
Praying! Back he's come sure as fate. He takes my money and he takes
my things. He won't let no man stay here to protect me or do the boats
or work the ferry. The ferry's getting a scandal. They stand and shout
and scream and use language.... If I complain they'll say I'm helpless
to manage here, they'll take away my license, out I shall go--and it's
all the living I can get--and he knows it, and he plays on it, and he
don't care. And here I am. I'd send the child away, but I got nowhere
to send the child. I buys him off when it comes to that, and back he
comes, worse than ever, prowling round and doing evil. And not a soul
to help me. Not a soul! I just hoped there might be a day or so.
Before he comes back again. I was just hoping--I'm the sort that
hopes."
Mr. Polly was reflecting on the flaws and drawbacks that seem to be
inseparable from all the more agreeable things in life.
"Biggish sort of man, I expect?" asked Mr. Polly, trying to get the
situation in all its bearings.
But the plump woman did not heed him. She was going on with her
fire-making, and retailing in disconnected fragments the fearfulness
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