Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. 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. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not.
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