It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. Loving was better than that. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife.
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