“Don’t they look nice?” she said. “One from last year and one from this, they just do. Save you buying a pair.”
And she looked over her shoulders at her pretty calves, and the dangling frills of her knickers.
“Put your skirts down and don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said.
“Why a fool of myself?” she asked.
And she began to dance slowly round the room, kicking up her feet half reckless, half jeering, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion. Almost fearfully, yet in defiance, she kicked up her legs at him, singing as she did so. She resented him.
“You little fool, ha’ done with it,” he said. “And you’ll backfire them stockings, I’m telling you.” He was angry. His face flushed dark, he kept his head bent. She ceased to dance.
“I shan’t,” she said. “They’ll come in very useful.”
He lifted his head and watched her, with lighted, dangerous eyes.
“You’ll put ’em on the fire back, I tell you,” he said.
It was a war now. She bent forward, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion, and put her tongue between her teeth.