He looked up at the ceiling.
"So A am—trying to be."
There was another silence. Then the woman spoke again, this time with the hushed curiosity of a child.
"Are all men like that?"
"The main of em, A reck'n."
Her hand swooped rhythmically; and there was the gentle accompanying thud of the iron taking the table and circling smoothly about its work.
"My Ern isn't."
"Your Ern's got what he wants—and what A want too."
Boots brushing themselves on the mat outside made themselves heard. Then the door opened.
Joe did not turn.