“When did ye ’ave yer food last?” he asked.
She did not answer.
“Maybe ye’re ’ungry?” he said.
And as she was still silent, he turned out his pockets again, and produced a broken bit of dry crust.
“It’s all I left o’ my dinner,” he said, “but it’ll stay yer stomach till ye can get ’ome.”
She let him put it into her hand, but she did not eat.
“It’s a queer thing,” said he ruminatingly, “women don’t seem to ’ave no pecker when they ain’t fit.”
She shivered again.
“Now, look ’ere,” said he, drawing out the spirit bottle once more, “ye’ve got to have another go at this or I’m damned, and then ye’ve got to eat that crust.”
He forced it on her, and she submitted, and then he added: “And as soon as ye can walk ye ought to go ’ome. Ye’ll catch yer death in them damp clothes.”